UNIVERSITY  OF 

AT   LOS  ANGELES 


Notes   from 


Nature's    Lyre 


By 

Howard  Beck  Reed 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

Glic  Knickerbocker  press 

New  York  and  London 

1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 

BY 
HOWARD  BECK  REED 


Published,  March,  1903 


Ube  fmicfcerbocfter  (reee,  Tlc\v  J:'orft 


DEDICATION 

V\7HOM  better,  dearest,  could  I  dedicate 

These  verses  to 
Than  you,  who  from  my  earliest  date 

The  longing  drew 
To   thank  you   for   that   patient   love   and 

sweet, 

Uplifting  me 

To  higher,  higher  spheres,  to  be  more  meet 
For  loving  thee? 

Eu 

LU    One  day  I,  dearest,  plucked  for  you 

A  bunch  of  heather-bells, 
|    But,  looking,  found  them  wet  with  dew. 
',    I  feared  they  were  not  fit  to  give, 
You  said  it  was  the  damp  that  made  them 

live, 
Those  drops  from  sorrow's  wells. 

These  simple  songs  in  love  I  made 

A  tribute  small  for  you. 
But  unwept  memories  soon  will  fade, 
And  true  I  found  these  wet  with  tears. 


(16191 1 


iv  Dedication 

You    took    them,    praised    them,    sweetly 

smoothed  my  fears 
And  dried  my  teared  eyes  too. 

Take,  I  know  thou  wilt  never  chide, 

'T  is  not  like  thee ; 
But  open  arms  with  mother's  pride 
These  beggared,  plaintive  poems  bide 

As  thou  dost  me. 

And  all  I  am  or  e'er  will  be 

I  owe  to  thee, 

Who  if  my  heart  sometimes  must  weep 
"Woulds't  give  thy  life  those  tears  to  keep! 

They  're  not  from  thee, 


MY   MOTHER. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xi 

INVOCATION  OF  THE  MUSES i 

INSPIRATION 3 

INVITATION  TO  NATURE-STUDY       ....  7 

SENORITA  JUANA 13 

SEASONS 

LAY  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 47 

A  RESTLESS  SUMMER  EVENING        ....  50 

WINTER  .........  52 

THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  BUDS 53 

THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE     ......  55 

PROPHECIES  OF  SPRING 57 

MY  FLOCKS 58 

FROST 60 

T  is  TIME  THE  THRUSH  TRAVELS  HOME         .        .  62 

THE  GRASSHOPPERS •     .  64 

THE  FIREFLY 66 

THE  BROKEN  BOUGH'S  LAMENT       ....  68 

MY  VALENTINE 73 

THE  LABORER'S  SONG     .        .        .        .        .        .75 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE    .......  77 

A  DULL  DAY  . 78 

A  SUMMER  SHOWER 80 

A  PRISONER 82 

A  BUTTERFLY 84 


vi  Contents 


SCATTERED  PETALS 

PAGE 

THE  SPEECHLESS  SERMON        .        .        .        ...  89 

Music 95 

THE  DEVON  COAST 97 

THE  SAILOR'S  STORY       ......  99 

THE  TALE  OF  TAWAH 102 

AN  INDIAN  SAGA  OF  THE  MOUND-BUILDERS    .        .  108 

ALIENI  TEMPORIS  FLORES 112 

ONLY  A  WHITE  ROSE 119 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SOUTH 121 

THE  CHARM  OF  THE  BROOK    .        .        .        .        .123 

DYING  DANNIE 125 

THE  ATLANTIC 128 

SHAKESPEARE  ........  131 

HIDDEN  SORROW 133 

A  PAINTING  BY  A  FRIEND 136 

SIMPLE  WORSHIP 138 

AT  TWILIGHT 140 

THE  AMCEBA    .        .        .        .        .        »        .        .141 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL    ...        .        .        .142 

THE  HILLS  OF  CLIFTON,  ENGLAND  .        .        .        .  144 

ECCLESIASTES  XI.,  I        .         .....        .         .  14^ 

THE  PHYSICIAN       .        ..      ..      ....      ..      •  *47 

ON  THE  RIVER        .        .'....        .        .        .        •  148 

A  WINDY  DAY         .        .        .        .        .        .        .150 

OUR  MARTYRED  STATESMAN  .        .        .        .        .  151 

LORD,  GIVE  us  CHEER     ...        .        .        •  154 

A  NATURE  PARADOX       .        .,      ..      .        .        .  155 

'T  is  PROFITABLE     .        .        .        .        .        .        .156 

THE  HERMIT-THRUSH '   .  15? 

VICTORIA         ._      .        ....       •        «        •        •  *59 

LONGFELLOW  ...        .        .        .        .        .  •      .  160 

THE  FOREST  FIRE  .        ....        .       *-  162 

A  TEXT  FOR  THOUGHT 165 


Contents  vii 


PAGE 

THE  CYNIC      .        .        .        .        •        •       •        .166 

SPEAKING        .        .        .        »       «        •        •       *    l^ 
Louis  J.  AGASSIZ    .        .       .       .        .       .       .    170 

LOST  IN  THE  WOODS       ......     172 

THE  VIOLIN     .        .        .        .        .        .        •  .     .    *73 

MANDOLIN  MEMORIES      ......     177 

SLEEPING  BEAUTY  ON  THE  LAKE     ....     179 

THE  STORM  NEAR  THE  CORNISH  COAST  .        .        .181 
THE  SARGOSSA  SEA         .        .        .       .        .        .182 

THIS  BAB-EL-  MANDEB     .        .        .        ...     183 

FORGET-ME-NOT       .......     184 

ZOOLOGY          ........     l86 

THE  MATCH  BOY    ......        .188 

THE  WRECK    .....        .        •        .     191 

THE  HEAVENLY  SOLDIER'S  HOPE    .        .        .  •     .     193 
A  TRAGEDY     .        .        .        .        .        .        .•       .     194 

"  MEDITATION,  DAY  AND  NIGHT  ".        .        .        .     196 

DESPAIR  NOT  ........     J97 

EULOGY  ......        •        •        •     19% 

THE  SARACEN  TO  HIS  SWORD  .        .        .      '  .        .    200 
THE  MEXICAN  MAID       .        ...        .        .201 

THE  MEETING-HOUSE     ......    203 

DREAMS  .        ........    206 

HIDDEN  BEAUTY      .......    208 

BOATING  SONG         .......     209 

NATURE'S  OWN  NATION  .        .        .        .  '      •        •    210 

PRAYER   .........    2I2 

THE  OCEAN  OF  LIFE       .....  213 

THE  HAPPY  DEAD  .......     215 

UNLOVED         .        .        .        .        •        •        •        .217 

GEOLOGIC  MAN       .        .        .        .        .        .        •     220 

I  LOVE  HIM  YET     .        .        .        .        .        .        .222 

To  LOVE         .        .        .        .        ,        .        .        .223 

MY  MOTHER   .        .        .        ....        .224 

ROMAN  RELICS  IN  ENGLAND    .....    225 


viii  Contents 

•  PAGE 

FATHER  .        .        .        .  , 228 

A  STONE  FROM  SOLOMON'S  TEMPLE  ....  229 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  PIECE  OF  COAL     .        .        .  232 

A  NAME 235 

VOICES 236 


SONNETS 

FRIENDSHIP 239 

FUTURITY 244 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 247 

CHILDREN 248 

WOMAN 249 

MILTON 250 

FAREWELL 253 

WHAT  A  POEM  is 255 

FICKLE  GOLD 256 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  PARADISE  BUT  BREEDS  DESIRE         .  257 

"THE  SPARROW" 258 

YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW 259 

WALES 262 

FRANCE 263 

LIFE 264 

DANTE 265 

BOTANY 266 

MELANCHOLY 267 

THE  ANT 269 

MY  BOOKS 270 

SOLITUDE 271 

BEN  NEVIS,  SCOTLAND 272 

MY  JONATHAN 273 

THE  FARMER 274 

THE  WISTARIA 275 

MY  MOODS     ,        , 276 


Contents  ix 

FROM  THE  KETTLE  ON  THE  CRANE  PAGE 

FROM  THE  KETTLE  ON  THE  CRANE  .        .        .        .  281 

WHEN  Pussy  PURRS        .        .       ".        .        .        .  284 

THE  PHONOGRAPH  ........  286 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  MUSINGS 288 

MY  ENLISTING        .......  290 

THE  FAMILY  CLOCK        .        .        .                .        .  291 

WAIT 293 

READING 295 

TWILIGHT  ON  THE  FARM 297 

WHY  ?     .                                 300 

IGNORANT  EMIGRATION 303 

JOTS  FOR  LITTLE  TOTS 

BABYLAND    .  . 307 

THE  BUMBLE-BEES'  SONG 309 

A  CHILDREN'S  SURPRISE  PARTY       ....  310 

WHAT  BABY  SAW 312 

LULLABY 313 

MY  WORK  is  DONE 315 

BABY  AND  THE  CATERPILLAR 317 

BABY'S  SKY 319 

THE  MOTHERLESS  DOLL 321 

FLY  AWAY  HOME 323 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  THRUSH 324 

TRIFLES 

EPITAPH  TO  MY  VERSES 329 

OUR  INHERITANCE 330 

THE  SHEARS  OF  ATROPOS 331 

MY  FIREPLACE 332 

SAMBO'S  TROUBLES 333 

THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  SEA-BEACH     .        .        .  335 

LOGARITHMS 337 

ODE  TO  JOHN  JONES        ,.,,,.  338 


INTRODUCTION 

|\A  ANKIND  owes  an  inestimable  debt  to 
'  God  for  His  terrestrial  gifts  which  sur 

round  us,  as  well  as  for  His  heavenly  ones 
which  are  to  come.  In  the  preparation  for 
the  enjoying  of  the  future  ones  the  logical 
way  is  to  notice  and  appreciate  those  which 
now  exist.  It  is  not  well  for  even  the  most 
ambitious  to  overlook  in  scorn  the  caterpillar 
of  earthly  graces  while  putting  forth  his  ut 
most  efforts  in  attempting  to  grasp  the  flee 
ing  butterfly  of  the  future.  The  one  is  the 
gradual  development  of  the  other,  and  that 
which  has  grown  slowly  is  generally  more 
perfectly  formed  than  that  which  has  devel 
oped  quickly.  But  aside  from  its  obligatory 
character — and  man  is  rarely  inclined  to  meet 
an  obligation — there  is  a  something  innate  in 
every  one  that  prompts  a  study  of  nature, 
an  irresistible  drawing  toward  the  beauty  and 
wonderfulness  of  creation.  And  if  a  man  so 
neglect  this  incentive  as  to  give  the  natural 
beauties  of  his  home  but  a  cursory  glance, 


xii  Introduction 


he  misses  one  half  that  which  this  life  holds 
in  store  for  him.  We  have  used  appreciation 
and  study  as  synonymous  terms,  and  are 
they  not  nearly  so?  What  can  we  under 
stand  fully  enough  to  give  it  proper  value 
unless  we  study  it  part  by  part  until  we  un 
derstand  every  component?  And  study  with 
this  aim  in  view  is  not  irksome,  it  is  more  a 
recreation  than  a  work.  On  the  other  hand, 
what  can  we  study  unless  we  have  enough 
appreciation  of  its  worth  to  add  interest  and 
to  overcome  its  apparent  homeliness? 

What  do  we  understand  by  this  nature- 
study?  Is  it  to  become,  like  Timon  of  Ath 
ens,  an  anchorite  and  bury  oneself  from  the 
world?  Not  at  all ;  it  simply  means  an  open 
eye  and  a  retentive  mind  while  passing 
through  that  strip  of  wood,  or  a  listening  ear 
eager  for  the  song  of  the  robin  or  the  thrush 
as  we  in  the  transaction  of  our  business  pass 
along  some  country  road.  There  is  no  need 
of  deposing  the  grand  sentiment  of  sociology 
and  becoming  a  recluse.  Unconditional 
solitude  is  but  for  the  shipwrecked  sailor  or 
the  misanthropist.  For  the  latter  we  feel  a 
hearty  sympathy,  who,  disdaining  all  social 
pleasures,  keeps  company  but  with  himself, 
and  that  self  is  sufficient  cause  to  make  him 


Introduction  xiii 


sick  of  the  world.  We  mean  one  who  when 
ever  the  chance  is  given  puts  himself  in 
touch  with  the  unartificial  world. 

But  not  wishing  to  weary  you  with  a 
thesis  from  a  prejudiced  mind,  let  us  briefly 
review  a  few  blessings  that  nature-study 
gives  us.  In  the  alembic  of  the  free  woods 
all  base  metals  of  character  are  changed  into 
the  pure  gold  of  noble  living.  And  this 
effect,  gained  from  being  in  the  great  forest, 
is  similarly  found  in  that  small  clump  of 
trees,  perhaps  your  only  available  glimpse  of 
nature.  Nearly  the  same  birds  have  their 
choir-stand  there,  and  certainly  the  same  rule 
governs  the  growing  of  the  flowers  and  the 
trees.  And  even  if  it  be  but  a  potted  plant 
in  your  window,  there  is  material  for  your 
natural  study.  In  the  forest  there  seems  to 
be  a  certain  element  which  city  air  has  not ; 
one  feels  his  heart  throb  with  inspiration 
and  joy;  he  is  practically  a  new  man.  And 
not  only  is  there  a  marked  exuberance  of 
spirits,  but  he  feels  himself  literally  elevated 
in  his  very  being.  His  heart  grows  tender 
toward  humanity  in  general.  Many  a  dis 
honorable  business  scheme  has  been  discoun 
tenanced  and  forestalled  during  an  outing 
in  the  woods;  it  is  no  place  for  unseemly 


xiv  Introduction 


thoughts  and  we  are  almost  awed  if  they  en 
croach  upon  our  attention.  And  this  broth 
erly  love  is  not  fleeting;  the  man  who  pays 
most  attention  to  the  non-dissembling  side 
of  the  world  seems  to  possess  the  greatest 
quantity  of  this  homely  but  valued  quality. 
All  the  virtues  might  be  shown  to  grow  in 
the  same  way  from  nature-study,  but  we 
think  it  sufficient  to  mention  only  this  one; 
for  of  all  the  commandments,  "Love  thy 
neighbor"  is  the  most  important,  with  the 
exception  of  the  first,  and  to  that  we  shall 
for  a  moment  direct  our  attention. 

Not  only  does  this  appreciative  study 
elevate  us  morally,  but  spiritually  are  we 
lifted  in  wonder  from  Nature  to  Nature's 
God.  For  that  should  be  the  object  of  all 
study.  There  has  never  been  a  thinker  who 
has  brought  the  motives  of  the  actions  of 
objects,  whether  in  the  inanimate  or  animate 
world,  to  a  tangible  form.  All  phenomena 
can  be  traced  to  a  certain  point  and  there 
our  discernment  fails  us.  Therefore  is  it 
a  perfectly  natural  result  and  one  that  is 
compatible  with  the  character  of  even  the 
most  practical  scientist  to  leave  the  research 
as  completed  and  refer  the  cause  of  the  phe 
nomena  under  question  to  the  Maker.  And 


Introduction  xv 


is  it  not  a  sufficient  incentive  to  nature- 
study,  when  man  declares  that  he  is  finite 
and  lacking  in  knowledge,  but  God  infinite 
and  omniscient?  And  everywhere  we  seem 
to  hear  from  Nature  the  psalms  of  praise  to 
the  Creator,  and  from  every  twig  and  every 
blade,  every  mount  and  every  glade,  we 
seem  to  hear  those  dear  words  of  exhortation 
spoken  by  our  Maker  and  drawn  from  Na 
ture,  "Flee  as  a  bird  to  your  mountain." 

HOWARD  BECK  REED. 


INVOCATION   OF  THE   MUSES 

S~\  MUSE,  lend  me  thy  tuneful  lyre, 
^"^     Save  me  a  single  string  of  fire 
From  harp  you  kindly  gave,  entire, 
To    him   who   wrought    "The   Thoughtful 

Man  " 

And  others  of  a  kin.     Inspire 
One  little  line  to  live  so  long 
As  marvellous  fame  of  forenamed  song, 
That  wisdom  shrinks  a  wondrous  wealth 
Within  a  space  so  small.     If  mind 
Can't  catch  from  one  of  Nine  by  stealth 
A  single  song,  canst  thou  not  find 
A  Tenth  I  pray,  Pierides? 
And  dub  her  Mea  as  a  name 
With  Latin  meaning  meant.     The  same 
Initiate  my  pensive  pen 
With  Nature's  notes,  that  I  'mong  men 
May  bear  the  joy-emburdened  hymn 
Thou  teachest  tuneful  thrush  and  lark ; 
That  I  may  show  to  others  Him, 
And  lifting  from  the  blinding  dark, 


Invocation  of  the  Muses 


Point  through  transparent  Nature-veil 
Where  God,  Creator,  sits  as  did 
At  first,  while  watching  power  prevail, 
The  Master  Mind  pronounced  it  good. 
He  shaped  the  whirling  wings  of  fire, 
And  flung  the  floods  to  quench  that  fire; 
Triumphant  taught  the  watery  tide 
Respect,  and  bade  retire  to  rest 
In  place  apart.     There,  raging  wide, 
Sore  piqued  to  see  the  lording  land 
Uplift  its  head  above  their  waves, 
Twice,  thrice,  victorious  warfare  planned. 
A  long  time  Earth  and  Sea  now  strive 
At  hide-and-seek.     Till  God  from  place 
Of  watching  other  planets  form, 
To  please  gave  each  allotted  space. 
Erato,  Clio,  now  inform 
My  mind  with  art,  and  power  bequeath, 
In  songs  the  faithful  fragrance  breathe 
That  winds  waft  wastefully  from  the  flowers : 
And  trace  my  page  with  tree  that  towers 
Above  the  wealthy  wood.     So  paint 
My  work  that  many  raptured  seek 
From  mirrored  image  mine,  though  faint 
The  beauties,  copied  made  so  weak. 


INSPIRATION 

A  LONG  the  banks  of  bubbling  brooks 
**•     I  wander,  while  my  searching  eye 
Is  bent  discussing  green-knolled  nooks 
Or  silver-shining  streams,  that  fly 
Before  mine  eye  in  endless  chain, 
As  scroll  slips  through,  in  thinking  skein 
With  wire-born  words,  the  Ticker  wise ; 
Improved  child  of  telegraph. 
Where  Nature  in  repose  e'er  lies, — 
The  black  Piceus '  ploughs  his  path, 
Distastefully  flings  from  armored  back 
The  water  scarce  his  sphere.     The  track 
Of  thirsty  deer  and  wildcat  's  here. 

What  thoughts  are  these  in  love  so  clear 

But  to  expression  tightly  bound? 

O  Muses !  make  a  magic  force 

To  turn  my  thought  to  meaning  sound, 

Convert  my  words,  so  tiring  hoarse, 

1  Hydropheus  pieeus, — a  large  beetle  that  dwells  in  the 
water  but  is  a  very  clumsy  swimmer.  It  does  seem  as 
though  it  was  not  intended  for  an  aquatic  insect. 

3 


4  Inspiration 

To  music  sweet  and  clear.     Each  eve 

Of  summer  brings  to  me  a  breeze, 

With  notes  that  sweet  sonatas  weave 

On  delicate  keys,  the  leaves  of  trees. 

Each  eve  of  winter  howls  the  wind 

When  unwonted  opposition  's  lined 

In  antique-fashioned  fireplace  grim, 

It  noisily  climbs  the  chimney's  side 

With  wrathful  whispers  or  howls  of  pain 

As  driven  back  by  heat  inside ; 

Then  fitfully  flings  itself  in  rage 

Upon  the  shadow  of  the  fire 

Reflected  on  the  window-pane.    They  bring 

Not  lines  as  from  a  Lydian  lyre, 

But  rugged  pibroch  of  Scotland  sing. 

As  comrades  in  a  war  are  drawn 

To  closer  love  from  common  risk 

And  perils  shared,  the  fire  and  I 

Grow  dearer  friends  and  oftener  seek 

Each  other's  company.     Birds  fly, 

As  legend-like  with  naughty  tales 

To  mother's  ears,  to  me  with  news; 

With  news  that  never  fails. 

I  love  to  read  this  simple  ruse : 

They  bring  within  their  bills  a  sign, 

A  whisp  of  hay,  a  twig  of  vine. 

A  stem  that  's  not  outgrown  its  green 

Brings  the  tidings  of  the  spring, 


Inspiration  5 

And  birds  that  South  have  wintering  been, 

And  now  search  stuff  for  home-building. 

But  stem  of  age  that  's  burnished  brown, 

Lost  from  their  beaks  comes  fluttering  down, 

In  silence  heralds  the  new-mown  hay, 

The  reaping-reign  of  autumn  day. 

The  moon  when  bathing  all  in  light 

Bright  argent-hued,  or  muffed  in  mist, 

Or  blanketed  from  Terra's  sight 

With  banks  of  choking  clouds.     Dismissed 

From  Earth  yet  starry-coronet  crowned, 

In  double  form  the  queen  of  night, 

Does  Cassiopeia  gather  round 

A  retinue,  displacing  her 

Oft  given  the  regal-rule  of  night. 

But  both  bow  down  with  obeisance  due 

At  my  imagination's  throne, 

From  godly  power  in  mercy  loan 

The  themes  that  hold  in  tenure  tight 

Attention  of  my  inmost  soul, 

Unable  quite  though  wish  would  write. 

From  God's  creation  as  a  whole 

Moves  most  mysterious  force,  so  full 

Of  messages  unseen,  unheard, 

Must  e'en  unwritten  be.     Our  furred 

And  feathered  friends  know  when  to  nest, 

And  when  to  seek  securer  seats, 

And  when  to  'scape  the  storm  that  's  dressed 


6  Inspiration 

Not  yet  within  its  wrecking  winds. 
Yet  busy  man  knows  naught  to  do 
Or  how  't  is  done.     Nor  can  construe 
The  thrills  that  Nature  e'er  inspires, 
As  wisdom-waiting  world  inquires. 
When  summer  zephyrs  softly  sigh, 
Or  winter's  roaring  wind  blows  high, 
Minerva,  goddess  of  the  mind 
And,  too,  by  many  more  enshrined 
Of  Science,  poesy,  and  arts, 
Give  power  to  stay  the  force  that  starts 
With  minute  moves  my  sluggish  mind. 
My  faculties,  let  Nature  find 
Attentive  as  the  crowd  that  heard 
Italian  Zeno  wise  propound 
His  master's  thought,  Parmenides. 
With  zeal  let  all  my  Life  be  crowned 
Translating  Nature-mysteries. 


INVITATION   TO  NATURE-STUDY 

MATURE  pleadingly  calls  from  her  beau 
tiful  bowers, 

From  her  sweetly  entrancing  schools, 
Where  the  pens  are  the  sunbeams,  and  the 

books  are  the  flowers, 
And  her  ink  stands  as  rain  in  the  pools. 

All  the  year,  as  she  calls  for  more  pupils,  she 

paints 

Pretty  pictures  on  each  flowery  page ; 
To  seduce  to  her  school  those  whose  interest 

is  cool, 
And  to  give  us  who  love  her  our  wage. 

By  the  sweetest  refrains  of  the  birds  she 

invites, 

By  the  singing  of  stream  and  of  brook, 
And  the  stars,  the  entrancing  play-suns  of  the 

nights, 

Are  prospectus,  she  asks  you  to  look. 
7 


8      Invitation  to  Nature-Study 

When  the  winter's  cold  session  is  on  there  's 

the  snow, — 

Cotton-plant  of  the  sky,  dropping  leaves, 
Holding  pentagram  marvels  whose  tale  you 

should  know, 

And  the  tree-covering   carpet  of  wonder 
it  weaves: — 

When  the  streamlets  are  guarded  by  glass 

window-panes, 

Where  they  shivering  wait  for  the  rains ; 
But  they  're  happy,  so  happy  they  cannot 

forget, 
Though    asleep,   Nature  's    guarding   them 

yet. 

'T  is  in  winter,  enthroned  o'er  the  scenery 

sublime 

In  her  grandest  attire,  Nature  reigns ; 
As  she  audience  gives,  in  this  stern,  courtly 

time, 

With  dew-jewels  they  construct  for   her 
fanes. 

Beauty's    fanes    that    are    formed   by   the 

feathery  snow-flakes, 

That,  reflecting  the  light,  look  like  minia 
ture  moons ; 


Invitation  to  Nature-Study      9 

In  their  flight  through  the  kingdom  of  stars 

each  one  takes 

Of   star-form  and   starlight.     Where    are 
lovelier  festoons? 

Then   there    's   spring,  when  the  winter  is 

wearing  away, 

When  the  sunbeams  awake  for  their  play ; 
And  they  knock  on  that  tiny  brown  cell 

'neath  the  fence, 
Where  all  winter  it  clung  for  defense. 

Soon  a  hole  's  in  it  seen,  then  a  head  slow 

appears, 

That  is  followed  by  legs  and  four  wings. 
Have  the  sunbeams  made  true  the  Greek- 
storied  Sun-Gods? 

Is  't  a   child  of   Apollo  with  too  many 
wings  ? 

And  the  wings  it  unwraps,  they  are  wet,  I 

believe ; 
Have  the  sunbeams  it  brought  on  their 

waves  ? 
For  we  're  told  that  the  light  from  the  sun, 

like  a  sea 

Travels   down   to   the   earth    washed   by 
waves. 


io    Invitation  to  Nature-Study 

'T  is  a  moth,  he  's  forerunner  of  millions  to 

come, 

And  the  bees  with  their  heart-happy  hum 
Join  in  song  with  the  moths,  though  the 

latter  are  dumb, 

'T  is  a  truth,  there  are  hymns  oft   from 
mouths  that  are  mum. 

All  the  trees,  tired  of  garments  of  white, 

dress  in  green; 
On  the  branch  where  the  snow-buds  have 

been 
And  have  burst  into  leaves,  if  we  search, 

may  be  seen 

Many  birds  both  of  blue,  and  of  red,  and 
of  green. 

Now  the  spring  is  of  summer  the  plan — not 

matured — 

Nature  's  setting  the  scene  for  the  act 
That  contains  her  best   thought,  the  most 

interesting  part, 

Through   the  luring   of   spring   thus  she 
wins  us  by  tact. 

On  the  stage  of  the  summer  she  shows  us 

results 
Of  the  laboring  year  that  is  flown ; 


Invitation  to  Nature-Study     n 

And  creation  with  friends,  Nature's  pupils, 

exults 
At  the  progress  of  work  that  is  shown. 

In  her  temples  of  oak  and  of  pine   and  of 

beech 

Gives  her  baccalaureate  speech, 
And  a  choir  of  sweet  voices  invisible  sings 
The  class  ode  of  the  birds  and  the  springs. 

In  the  autumn  we  leave  our  school  tasks  in 

the  past, 

And  enter  in  business  at  last ; 
With  the  lessons  we  've  learned  in  the  seasons 

of  toil 
To  harvest  the  fruits  of  our  soil. 

Won't  you  come  to  this  sweetly  entrancing 

school 

From  the  city  and  stifling  crowd, 
To  the  far-reaching  woods  so  refreshing  and 

cool, 
And  where  wandering  is  ever  allowed? 

See,  it  's  teeming  with  wonders  that  cannot 

be  told ! 

Just  a  glance  and  she  charms  with  her 
power, 


12    Invitation  to  Nature-Study 

As  each   moment    new-founded    mysteries 

unfold 

That    hypnotic    smooth    over    many    an 
hour. 

Come,  view  what  He  has  given, 

The  beauteous  gifts  of  God. 
All  joy  is  not  for  Heaven 

And  the  earth  for  chastening  rod, 
For  Nature  's  beauty-clad 

And  smiling  with  happiness. 
Yes,  she  will  make  you  glad, 

While  the  Maker,  He  will  bless. 


SENORITA  JUANA 

CANTO  I. 

"T*  WAS  twilight  time,  when  day  and 

night  contend 

On  even  terms  for  darkness  or  for  light, 
And    struggling    softly,    silently,    they 

lend 
Vistas  of  brightness  overtrimmed  with 

night. 
As  clinging  cloudlets  cluster  round  the 

sky 
Peep  out  from  the  dark  when  a  storm 

is  nigh. 

Thus  at  the  close  of  a  hot,  hot  day 
Soft  steeped  in  the  shadows  Mitla  lay, 
A  spot  in  the  drear  plain's  dry  waste 
10.    Where     Oaxaca's   road,    as    the    story 

reads, 

To  the  old  Cortez-conceived  city  leads. 
This  Aztec  temple,  pre-pyramid  born, 
Now  stands  of  all  its  former  beauty 

shorn, 

13 


H  Senorita  Juana 

A  shapely  pile  of  walls  and  pillars  hoar 

That  dreams  of  Past  but  hears  its  song 
no  more; 

A  meteor  from  the  distant  heights  of 
Past 

That,  rushing  through  its  friction,  finds 
at  last 

A  cool  and  restful  refuge  from  all  strife, 

Bathed  in  all  peace  since  now  it  's  lived 

its  life. 
20.    Against  a  mossy  pillar,  moonbeam  lit, 

As  graceful  as  on  the  flowers  serene 

The  azure  Asteriae  sweets-sipping  sit, 

A  Mexican  maid  does  listening  lean. 

Brushes  'way  the  hair  that,  jet  black, 

Unfettered,  pads  the  hard  supporting- 
back, 

Thus  clears  to  view  the  faultless  fore 
head  broad, 

Subtends  the    dreamy,  drinking    eyes, 
now  awed 

By  the  holy    place,  in  sleeping  silence 
bathed. 

And  the  red  lips  so  delicately  lathed 
30.    That   with   two    trickling    tears     were 
bathed, 

Quivering,  bespoke   the  fear    she    felt 
unshown. 


Senorita  Juana  15 

At  last  an  approaching  footstep  heard, 
And  a  figure    stepped  where  the  moon 
light  shone, 
And  "  Juana,  Juana,  "    gently    called, 

she  heard. 
She  moved    to  meet  him  with  motion 

as  light 

As  a  fourth-year  osier  by  breeze  is  bent. 
Love's  greeting  past,  he  speaks  in  voice 

so  slight 
She  closer  clings  to    catch    the  word, 

silent, 
Attentive,  as  only  from  Love's  lexicon 

is  learnt. 

40.    "Before  the  sun  o'er  Orizaba's  peak 
Doth  climb  leave  I,  my  fortune,  yours, 

to  seek. 
(Sweet   Juana,    how   can    I   from   thee 

depart, 
The    nearest    and    the    dearest    to   my 

heart  ?) 
The  dangers  of    the    wilds  have  I    to 

meet; 

May  the  Holy  Mother  guide  my  feet ! 
But  the  padre" — dark  flashed  his  angry 

eye — 
"Hath  driven  me  from  the  nest  to  live 

or  die, 


16  Senorita  Juana 

He  cares  not.     My  folks  forbade  me  to 

come 
Or  be   seen   near   yours,  near  Juana's 

home. 

50.    But  when  I  rich  in  gold  and  honor  am, 
Answer  they  all  to  Leon    de   Tamat- 

quam." 
Darker  came  his  eye  and  knowing  laid 

his  hand 
On  jewelled  hilt,  in  belt  the  richest  in 

the  land. 

"Leon,  must   you    really   so  soon  de 
part?" 
Asked  she  with  tearful  eye  and  heavy 

heart. 
"Why  shouldst  thou  go  at  all,   Leon, 

from  home, 
Through  barbarous  lands  and  countless 

dangers  roam  ? 
Why  not    the   padre,    who   bades   for 

best,  please 
And   marry    the   wealthy    Donna  Du- 

quese? " 
60.    Her  lips  lisped  "Yes,"  but    her   heart 

heard  "No." 
"Senorita!" 
'T  is    best,  Leon,  for  us  to   part    I 

know, 


Senorita  Juana  17 

For  I  a  simple  market  maid  at  best, 
And  you  a  prince,  so  Fate  hath  formed 

our  nest. 
I  know  thou  lovest  me  well  and  that  to 

part 
Would    mar   your    future,    hide     your 

happiness. 
List,    Leon,   how   strange    seems   this 

truth  untold : 
That  if  we  love,  with  love  whose  great 

deepness 
To  our  unthinking   friends   cannot    be 

seen 
70.    They  think  that  we  but  for  a  moment 

lean, 
And  'tween  our  aching  hearts  a  hand 

they  thrust 
And  then  that  we  forget  it  soon  they 

trust ; 

Little  aware  that  we  for  hence  are  dead 
As  we   have   lost    Life's   little   golden 

thread. 
Ah,   may  the  Lord    forgive   for    lives 

they  took ; 

What  thinkest  thou,  Caro,  must  a  part 
ing  look 
We  take   and   go   our    separate    ways 

alone? 


1 8  Senorita  Juana 

Let  love  not  speak  but  thought  for  it 

atone. 

For  oft  we  must  an  act  for  duty  do 
80.    That  is  adverse  and  may  for  us  bring 

rue." 
He  answered  not,  but  took  her  in  his 

arms, 

Where  she  her  brave    words  soon  for 
got  ;  in  arms 
She    nestled    and    never   a   word    was 

passed, 
But  in  such  times  a  look  has  meaning 

vast. 
Then   softly  disengaged   his   hold   and 

spoke : 

"Mia  Carissima,  I  must  now  fly 
As  does  the  downy  dove  for  food,  so  I 
My   Juana  leave.     But  listen,  Love,  to 

me: 
'Fore  the  autumn  feast  is  for  harvest 

spread 

90.    (If  Mother  Mary  minds  my  miser  foe) 
In    just    six  months  return  I  thee   to 

wed." 
Then    held    her    close    and    whispered 

words  to  soothe, 
To  try  their  parting's  sorrow  thus  to 

smooth. 


Senorita  Juana  19 

Then  kissed  and  with  a  sob  said  last 

adieu, 
Strode  sadly  on,  and  soon  was  lost  to 

view. 
Juana  sighed  soft  and  homeward  made 

her  way 
Just  as  the  sky  hung  out  the  sign  of 

day, 
And    dark   reluctant,    leaving   Mitla's 

side, 
Gave  way  to  gray,  that  soon  was  lost  to 

glide 
100.    To  the  deeper   blue  that   marks   the 

nearing  morn, 
In  other  light  the  ruins  to  adorn. 

CANTO   II. 

With  heavy  heart  did  Juana  now  pro 
ceed 

To  her  meagre  little  hut,  where  she 
alone 

With  widowed  mother  lived,  too  poor 
indeed 

The  proverbial  sombrero  and  horse  to 
own. 

But  fate  decreed  that  she  in  her  sorrow 

Should  not  be  left  in  peace,  for  'fore 


20  Senorita  Juana 

She  reached  the  tiny  yard  the  first  in  row 
That  stood  before  the  huts  in  number 

four, 
There  stepped  in  Juana's  path  a  man, 

mid-aged, 
TO.    Whose  dress  bespoke  a  soldier,  and  the 

coat 
Of   blue    was    marked   on  sleeve   with 

captain's  bars. 
But  from  his  eye  a  gleam  there  shot 

that  mars 
The  best   impression   gained   by  noble 

clothes, 
And  there  was  something  of  the  snake 

in  pose 
That  tends  the  doubting  mind  to  rise 

and  stand 
'Tween   hate  and  friendship;  one  who 

we  our  hand 
'T  were  better  at  his  throat  than  in  his 

palm. 
Then  Juana  saw  and  stopped,  near  lost 

her  calm, 
For  well  she  knew  that  James  McCreer 

no  good 

20.    To  any  maiden  of  her  caste  could  do. 
He  spoke,  his  voice  the  same  struck  on 

her  ear 


Senorita  Juana  21 

As  sight  of  subtile  cobra's  awful  hood. 
In  accents  soft  he  asks  about  her  home 
Which  might,  had  she  such  sorrow  not 

to  stand, 

In  her  mind  him  raise  to  a  loftier  dome. 
Ah,  now  these  words  increased  sorrow's 

demand 

And  his  ensuing  words  but  to  her  gave 
Chaos,  as  though  she  stood  in  some 

closed  cave 
'Mid    oceans   of   noise  whose   vibrating 

waves 

30.  Beat  the  ear  as  billows  on  a  sandy  shore 
Unceasing  in  heaps  the  sand-like  sound 

paves. 
And  with  a  sob  she  passed  from  out  his 

sight, 
So  great  her  grief,  looked  not  to  left  or 

right 

Till  on  her  poor,  hard  bed  herself  she  flung 
And,  as  we  all  sometimes,  her  sorrows 

sung. 

Juana  rose  at  nine  from  sleepless  bed 
With  sign  of  suffering  in  eyes  of  red, 
But  passed  her  mother's  fond  and  anx 
ious  gaze 
With  a  kiss  and  set  about  to  cook  their 

maize. 


22  Senorita  Juana 

40.    Their  simple  meal  in  silence  deep  was 

spent, 
For  Juana's  thoughts  but  to  Leon  were 

lent. 

But  he  she  slighted  on  return  spent  no 
Such  sober  hours;  when  met  at  dawn 

he  'd  just 

From  all  night  drink  with  many  a  quar 
rel  and  blow, 

Now  angered  at  the  girl's  unhid  distrust, 
He  thought  of  one  he  hoped  could  give 

him  aid. 
And  while  he  walked  his  rage  in  oaths 

he  said, 
And    switched    the    slender     sabadilla 

leaves 
As  at  a  foe.     This  friend  where  now  he 

went 
50.    Was  he  who  owned  and  held  the  house 

for  rent 
That   Juana   occupied.     And    here   he 

learned 
That  which  he  on  his  way  so  much  had 

yearned : 
Behind   in   rent,   he   had   them   at   his 

power. 
A   formal  edict   passed   (while   Justice 

slept 


Senorita  Juana  23 

Her  scales  were  transferred  to  her  eyes), 

out  stept 
Poor  Juana   and  her  madre  old;   their 

pride 
(They   were   not   peons   born)    upheld 

them  well. 
But  at  the  sale  when  McCreer  gained 

her  side, 
The  poor  girl  understood  the  workings 

well, 

60.    But  once  again  refused  to  give  him  ear. 
Now  dragged  a  time  too  full  of  suffering 

deep 

To  disgrace  by  numbering  for  amuse 
ment's  sake. 
In  the  market  was  sustenance  eked  out 

dear 
With    work    and    tear.       How    Juana 

robbed  from  sleep 
In  prayer  for  help :  If  Leon  were  only 

here! 
One  day  while  selling  tamales  in  the 

street 

Seflora  de  Tamatquam  passed  that  way. 
She  stopped  the  coach,  with  gold  and 

lace  replete, 
And  smiled  at  her  in  sweetest  motherly 

way. 


24  Senorita  Juana 

70.    She  'd  never  met  the  maid  whom  Leon 

loved 
And  knew  not  this  was  she.     'T  is  hard 

to  say, 

But  she  was  also  like  an  April  day, 
That  darkens,  storms,  while  yet  the  sun 

is  seen, 

For  proud,  o'erbearing  was  her  mien. 
But   Juana,    glad   to   meet    a    friendly 

aid, 
Made  courtesy,  held  the  tray  for  her  to 

buy. 
Seflora,    struck    with    bearing    of    the 

maid, 
Stepped   from  her  coach,  and  yet  she 

knew  not  why. 
"Mia   Cara,  wouldst   like  to  work   for 

me?" 
80.    Ah,  would  she !     Now  her  madre  need 

but  rest. 
She  answered  "Yes"  with  eager  childish 

glee. 

How  oft  by  some  mirage   we  're  has 
tened  on, 
By  some  base  metal   led  to   think   it 

gold, 
And  when  it 's  gained  we  feverish  plead 

and  pawn 


Senorita  Juana  25 

To   secure    the    sage's   stone,    alembic 

mold, 
That    shapes    mere    brass    to    highest 

valued  gold. 
She  stepped  within  the  coach  as  in  a 

trance, 
As  when  from  theatre's  charm  we  reach 

the  street 
'T  is  like  the  action  of  a  dream.     Maid 

Chance 
90.    For  several  weeks  seemed  well  to  guide 

her  feet 

In  reformation's  path.     The  sefiora  sel 
dom  seen, 
The   others  kind  to  her,  could    Juana 

glean 

A  comfort  life  for  madre  and  herself. 
But  ah,  that  Maid  clothed  like  a  Comus- 

elf 
Could   naught   but  trifle  if  she  would. 

One  day 

While  Juana  was  at  knitting  'gaged 
She   felt   the  charm,  the  silent,  secret 

sway 
Of  being  watched,  and  glancing   from 

her  work, 
She  starts  in  terror  joined  with  strange 

surprise : — 


26  Senorita  Juana 

IOO.    Sefiora  like  an  angry  jaguar  stands, 

Her    eyes     ablaze,    her    hands    tight 

clenched ;  her  size 
Seemed  godly  in  its  passioned  height ; 

her  hands 
Outstretched,  she  spake  in  hoarse  and 

choking  tones : 
"That  ring,  thou  wretched  peon,  who 

gave  thee  that? 
Little  thought  that  I  a  thief  had  here 

enthroned!  " 
At   "thief,"    that    word    a    challenge 

world  around, 
Glanced  Juana  at  her  hand  and  circlet 

there 
By  Leon   placed  and  their  betrothal 

crowned. 
And  with  the  force  of   nobleness  all 

bear 

1 10.    Who  sorrow  o'er  a  severed  love  if  true, 
Threw  back  seflora's  glance,  who  could 

but  stare, 
And  then  her  eyes  fell  as  the  other's 

grew 
And   flamed   from    character  of  truth 

and  pure. 
"My  birth  's  as  good  as  yours,  Sefiora, 

you  're 


Senorita  Juana  27 

The  thief  who  steals  from  life  two  per 
sons'  joy. 

How  dost  thou  answer  to  thy  God? 
Your  boy 

Was  given  you  to  make  happy,  how, 

How  is  this  duty  done?  Is  your  own 
mind 

So  potent  in  its  thought  as  not  to  bow 
1 20.  Before  the  heart  whose  promptings  are 
from  God  ? ' ' 

With  that  she  left  the  house  pride- 
wounded  shod. 

Sefiora  sat  long  deep  engaged  in 
thought ; 

Already  something  nearly  love  had 
wrought 

For  Juana  deep  regard.  The  love  that 
he 

The  victim  feels  when  truthful  noble 
ness 

Is  led  to  speak  his  wrath.  Seftor  at 
tea 

When  sat  the  lonesome  two  heard  her 
confess ; 

And  wounded  pride  was  nearly  over 
ruled 

By  sorrow  caused  by  son's  forced  leave 
from  home. 


28  Senorita  Juana 

130.  And  so,  if  now  it  could  be  done,  they 
schooled 

Themselves  to  all  forget.  How  oft  we 
roam 

Regretful,  in  the  after  years,  and  look 

To  help  the  woe  we  've  caused  by 
thoughtless  word ! 

But  already  Juana  had  the  town  for 
sook, 

Of  her  could  not  the  slightest  trace  be 
heard. 

CANTO  III. 

'T  was  midway  'tween  the  noontime 

and  the  eve, 
When   daylight,   cloyed  with   sight   of 

striving  earth, 
Seems  to  grow  weary  and  attempts  to 

weave 
A   cloud-web    o'er    the    dazzling   sun, 

whose  dearth 

Of  sympathy  makes  suffering  so  intense 
Within  the  tropic  clime,  it  cooler  grows, 
And  light  is  partially  dimmed  by  fleecy 

fence. 
'T  was  in  this  meagre  respite  from  the 

heat, — 


Senorita  Juana  29 

For  the  Peruvian  night  is  worse  than 

day, 
10.    Her  blanket  thrown  o'er  Nature  head 

and  feet 

Is  stifling  in  its  closely  wrapping  sway,— 
Two  travellers  reposed  upon  a  plain ; 
The  one  who,  sitting  'gainst  a  rocky  rest 
His  mien  clearly  marked  a  man  of  brain, 
And  such  indeed  is  this  Professor  Gates, 
A  man  of  much  renown  within  the 

States. 
But  tall  and  straight  the  other  stood,  his 

mind, 

Unlike  companion's,  seemed  confined 
By  thoughts  more  distant  than  the  wild, 

fair  scene ; 

20.    And  noble  brow  bespoke  a  cloud  of  care 
That  with  the  lines  of  wisdom  struggled 

there. 
His  eyes  one  moment  wrapped  in  tender 

light, 

Then  gleamed  a  dark,  determined  pur 
pose  there ; 

As  beacon  to  the  seeking  ships  at  night 
Is  masked  in  shadow,  then  the  light  laid 

bare, 

As  tender  to  the  sailor  as  his   sweet 
heart's  eyes; 


30  Senorita  Juana 

Alternate  darts  destruction  or  a  love. 
The  savant  watched  him  with  a  curious 

ga7p 
d£C, 

Throws  back  sombrero  with  a  careless 

shove : 
30.    "Seftor,  our  trip  has  failed;  no  finds  as 

yet." 
The  other  with  a  quiet  voice  that  would 

unset 
Our  character  gained  from  his  haughty 

mien: 
"All,  Medico,  comes  to  the  man  who 

waits 
And  works ;  this  plain  may  yet  unfold  a 

tomb. 

As  that  mimosa  holds  its  timid  baits 
From   leilu    looking   for   its   food.      A 

doom 
Ne'er  follows  man  of  own  accord ;  't  is 

like 
The  tamed  bird  that  must  be  coaxed, 

and  man 

Is  ever  ready  to  invite  the  strike 
40.    He  sees  ill-fate  hold  o'er  him.     The  ban 
Of  severed  love  's  the  only  thievish  woe 
That  creeps  and  crawls  into  the  sleeping 

heart 
As  yon  an'condas  on  the  antus  go; 


Senorita  Juana  31 

'T  is  like  the  Muras*  curare-covered  dart, 
The   'whispered   death'    that   lulls   the 

brain  to  sleep." 
The  other  wondering  watched  the  giant 

snake 

That  swayed  with  solemn  swing  and  deep 
From  lofty  perch  that  boughs  of  wine- 
palm  made ; 
That   bough    that   Agassiz,    my   loved 

mentor, 'aptly  said 
50.    Looked    like    "Long    limbs    of    coral 

flecked  with  green." 
And  while  he  watched,  his  mind  with 

mysteries  fed, 
He  marvelled  at  his  comrade's  readless 

mien. 
This   man   had   met   him   in   Oaxaca's 

street 

And  asked  to  join  the  party,  ten  savants, 
In  search  for  pottery  from  Peru.     And 

soon 

Gates  found  in  him  a  mighty  mind. 
As   travelling  will  a  friendship   tightly 

bind 
The  two  were  joined  in  study  heart  and 

soul. 

Leon   Tamatquam,    such    he   gave   his 
name, 


32  Senorita  Juana 

60.    As    fondness,    not    merely    fame,    was 

striven-for  goal, 

A  most  respected  student  soon  became. 
But  reticent  in  speech,  o'er  past  a  veil 
Was  cast  that  every  glance  was  to  no 

avail. 
Such   were  the  thoughts  his   comrade 

pondered  o'er, 
And  turned  with  careless  eye  his  puzzled 

look 
Round  scene   whose   barrenness   could 

naught  but  bore. 
But   sudden  starts,  for  bowlder  which 

he  'd  took 
For  rest,  in  certain  angles  glowed  with 

furrowed  streaks 

Where  sunlight  rested  golden  arrows  on. 
70.    The   two   men  knelt  beside  this  new 
found  freak. 
Unravelled  the  Toltec  picture-language 

drawn, 
With  scarce  a  word  to  other  said.     This 

stone 

Of  catacomb  of  unknown  age  the  door, 
The  closed  clausura,  undisturbed  throne 
Of  rest  for  thousand  cycles,  maybe  more, 
To  them  was  greater  wealth  than  mine 

of  gold. 


Senorita  Juana  33 

For  full  an  hour  they  feast  their  learned 

look 

On  fascinating  tales  the  figures  told. 
Then  toward  the  camp  their  way  they 

took 
80.    Conversing  on  the  fortune  accidentally 

found. 
A  fortune  dwelt  within  their  pathway 

too, 
For  wealth  of   natural   beauty  reigned 

around, 
A  scene  whose  worldly  rivals  are  but 

few. 
The  rosewood  wrapped  with  long  lianed 

wreaths 
Where  grew  when  startled  by  the  noise 

like  leaves 

The  Agrippina  moth  in  mimicry. 
And   as   their  path  was   sister   to   the 

stream, 
The   branches   held  the   beutivis   choir 

whose  tree 
O'erlooked  their  tiny  mud-made  homes 

that  teem 
90.    Within   the  reeds  that  line  the  river's 

shore. 
Kingfishers    starched    with    stateliness 

with  lore 

3 


34  Senorita  Juana 

Of    Walton    watched    the    game  -  fre 
quented  tide. 

And  diving-grebes,  loon  of  tropic  clime, 

At  their  approach  beneath  the  surface 
slide 

With  speed  of  arrow's  flight.     In  ill- 
kept  time 

The  partridge  drums  his  quick  retreat ; 
on  high 

The     rainbow -gowned     macaws     like 
much-mooned  '    maids 

Scold  at  the  unoffending  men.    The  eye 

Met  all,  but  their  appreciation  fades 
100.    At    thought    of    news    they   took   to 
comrades'  camp. 

Around   the  fire  they  sat  and   heard 
with  joy; 

The  blaze  that  served  their  needs  as 
stove  and  lamp 

Lit  up  each  interested  face.     But  joy 

Cannot  allay  a  forest  hunger  though, 
and  sound 

To  supper  gained  a  cheer.     After  that 
they  sat 

And  talked  with  vim  o'er  finding  of  the 
mound, 

Upon  the  soft  luxurious  mossy  mat ; 

1  Much-mooned — an  Indian  expression  of  great  age. 


Senorita  Juana  35 

Despite   the   insects   'chanted   by  the 

light, 
'Mong  which  a  scorpion  like  a  lobster 

small 
no.    Went  crawling  round  their  feet.     Off 

to  the  right 

And  leaning  on  a  tree  apart  from  all 
There  Leon  stood.     A  deeper  joy  to 

him, — 
'T  was  fame,  but  was  that  all?    Ah, 

no,  the  loud, 
Discordant   cry  of   grebe   was   like   a 

hymn; 
At  last  ill-fortune  seemed  to  lift  its 

cloud, 
That  hope  so  long  had  fought  in  vain, 

and  peace 
Was  in  his  heart.     Next  day  they  oped 

the  grave, 

And  from  its  jealous  aged  hands  release 
The  tokens  of  a  former  art  (the  cave 
1 20.    In  modal  and  its  wealth  may  now  be 

seen 

In  the  largest  museum  of  our  land), 
Their  work  complete,  a  fame  secured, 

and  glean 
Of  wealth   from  thankful  world  they 

knew  at  hand, 


36  Senorita  Juana 

They   start   on   home   return.      Float 

down  the  stream 
Where    Nature    satiates    her    wildest 

dream, 
And   languid  answers  plea  the  fairies 

sent, 

Gives  tacit  leave  to  tawdry  ornament. 
The   Amazon    's    a    rich-cut   boudoir 

bowl 
And  filled  with  silver  fish  or  glistening 

gold, 
130.    And  round  the  room  her  neat,  artistic 

soul 
Hath  ranged  the  richest  hangings  earth 

can  hold. 
But  like   the   furred   intruder  in  that 

room, 
Bespeaking  for  those  gold-fish  awful 

doom, 

Roam  monsters  like  the  myths  of  an 
cient  Rome, 
Surprising    stones    within    a    setting 

such! 

But  one  of  her  unsolved  enigmas  this, 
For  she  surprises  us  in  very  much ; 
It  only  interest  adds,  't  is  not  amiss. 
From  off  the  bank  and  startled  by  their 

boat 


Senorita  Juana  37 

140.    Cruel  caymans  crawl  into  the  deep, 

Or  like  Turumus'  Trunk  they  stealthily 

float 
To  challenge  those  who  thus  disturb 

their  sleep. 

Beneath  the  crystal  surface  like  a  lens 
Are  seen  the  gliding  water-snakes  from 

dens 
Beneath  the  spreading  roots  of  Exselsa 

tree 
That  built  its  domicile  too  near  the 

tide; 

Or  poison-dart  backed  duridaris  glide 
Seduce  a  smile  from  stream  near  ripple- 
free, 
While  chasing  smaller  pecos  spitefully. 

CANTO   IV. 

Once  more  we  're  led  to  Mitla's  Mono 
lithic  Hall, 

Once  more  to  that  all-silent  mysteried 
wall, 

That  may  have  stood  assaulting  armies' 
blows, 

Or  nobler  thought  protected  priestly  rite. 

The  sun  three  fourths  its  trip  had  made 
and  glows 


:«>:L9M. 


38  Senorita  Juana 

With  all  its  torturing,  mantle-moving 

might. 

The  ground  is  tessellated  with  the  light 
That  mixes  with  the  dark  to  form  a  floor 
Marquetry-like, — more  pretty  than  the 

wall 
10.    Of  that  Mosaic  Corridor  so  near. 

The  light  in  more  detail  than  former  call 
Portrays  this  ruin,  of  past  a  mighty  bier, 
This  unarched  type  of  massive  Norman 

style, 
Which   calls   more    question   than   the 

pyramids 

Of  Cholula  and  of  Egypt  too.  A  trial 
This  sun  must  have  at  night  to  close  its 

lids 
When  prying  man  comes  peering  round ; 

it  saw 
It  built  and,  pleased  by  worship  given  to 

him, 
Made  oath  to  keep  it  from  the  future's 

maw; 
20.    And  we  on  gazing  thoughtfully  share 

this  whim. 
'T  would  half  its  interest  lose  if  were 

but  known ; 
Cursed  be  that  man,  that  relic-seeking 

drone, 


Senorita  Juana  39 

He   need  not  leave  his  first  reluctant 

track 

To  find  a  living  curio.     The  sun, 
As  if  to  drive  these  curious  travellers 

back, 
Threw     stinging    darts    of    heat    that 

seemed  to  run 
Even  the  shadows  through.     In  refuge 

sought 

In  gloom  a  wide-girthed  pillar  made 
'Gainst  which  the  sun  when  he  had  use 
less  fought 
30.    Laid  there  to  sleep,  and  thus  the  spot 

of  shade, 
Two  women  rest.     The  one  was  old  and 

gray, 
Reclined   in   posture   spoke  her   ill   or 

tired ; 
The  other,  young,  was  standing,  loving, 

near 

And  lending  words  of  hope  scarce  self- 
inspired. 
But  was  not   this  the  harvest-time   of 

year, 
And  would  the  feast  not  grace  the  town 

at  morn, 
And  now   't  was  almost  night,  would 

Leon  come? 


40  Senorita  Juana 

She  bent  to  loose  the  old  mantilla  rich, 
In  Anahuac  but  worn  by  noble  born, 
40.    That    madre's    strength     alone    could 

scarce  have  done. 
What  was  that  shadow  unseen  by  the 

maid 

That  crept  from  the  subterranean  hall 
From  Inlaid  Corridor!     It   trailed   the 

shade, 

And  like  an  anaconda  shunning  all 
That  spoke  of  being  seen.     And  was  it 

not 
A  reptile  bent  upon  their  harm?     No, 

not 
A  natural  snake,  for  looking  close  we 

find 
The  same  malignant  brute  that  caused 

this  woe. 

A  cobra  'd  be  a  closer  friend  than  mind 
50.    They  crossed  in  its  brutish  lust.     Sure, 

yet  how  slow, 
He  crawls  from  stone  to  stone  until  he  's 

placed 
Himself  between   the   women  and  the 

door. 

Another  man  in  richest  velvet  laced, 
Whose  gold-insigniaed  sombrero  speaks 

him  a  prince, 


Senorita  Juana  41 


Came  striding  down  the  road.     An  up 
ward  glance 
And  Juana  sees  her  Love.     With  open 

arm 
She  runs  toward  him,  but  sudden  stops 

and  clasps  her  hands 
And  shrieks  in  warning  wild  alarm ! 
McCreer  had  leaped  behind  Leon  and 

stands 
60.    His   sword    upraised   to   strike;    Leon 

leaped  round, 
As  quick  as  lightning  bared  his  blade, 

and  found 
The  stroke  upon  its  guard,  then  raised 

his  steel ; 
But  God  had  drawn  His  'venging  sword. 

Leon, 
His  sword  yet  pure,  saw  foe  back  wildly 

reel, 
And  staggering  fall.     The  three  looked 

on 
In  awe,  but  Leon's  piercing  glance  was 

caught, 

Excited  points  to  right  hand  of  the  man ; 
There  was  the  proof, — not  mortal  had 

he  fought, 
But  God  through  Nature  had  amended 

plan 


42  Senorita  Juana 

70.    And  punished  here  in  lieu  of  Judgment 

Day. 

And  as  they  looked  a  tarantula  leapt 
From  off   the  swollen  corpse   and  ran 

away. 
The   fiend  who   on  the  ground  before 

them  slept 

But  slightly  showed  the  effects  of  poi 
son's  power, 
So   like   his   natural  countenance   that 

hour 
Of  drink  had  Circe-like  changed  form. 

In  awe 
The  friends  now  fled  the  most  revolting 

sight ; 

The  sun  in  sorrow  hastened  to  withdraw 
And   hide   her    loved    Mitla    from   the 

light; 

80.    So  glad  that  justice  had  been  meted  out 
But  sorrowed  that  her  fane  should  be 

the  court. 
When  near  the  town  they  saw  as  if  in 

doubt 

A  man  advancing  slow ;  he  nearer  came ; 
'T  was  Leon's  father ;  then  the  two  stood 

still 
And   waited   each   to   speak,   but  love 

o'ercame 


Senorita  Juana  43 

And  though  against  the  dictates  of  his 

will, 
The  father  embraced  his  son  and  burst 

in  tears. 
Now   was   an  end  to  all   his   haunting 

fears, 
A  chance  to  make  amends  for  suffering 

caused, 
90.    He  loosed  his  son,  the  proud  old  man 

ne'er  paused, 

Saluted  Juana  as  a  daughter  dear, 
Her  mother  with  respect, — and  all  was 

right. 

Perhaps  illiterate  surmise  and  fear 
I  have  been  wont  to  cast  before  your 

sight, 
But  I  believe  in  some  our  neighboring 

spheres 
There   may   or    will    have   been   more 

James  McCreers. 


SEASONS 


45 


LAY   TO   THE   WEST   WIND 

JVA  IGHTY  muse  of  lyric  lays  attend, 
* "  *•     Meditate  with  me  awhile,  and  bend 
Your  thoughtful  head  o'er  your  listening  lyre 
And  sing  to  it  songs  divine.     Inspire 
And  appoint  me  earthly  sire  for  thee 
Signed  by  accolade  of  fame.     Make  me 
To  rightly  give  rank  to  wind  we  love 
All  other  summer  zephyrs  above. 
Our  nation's  best  admirer,  too, 
He  knows  each  dell  and  each  mountain  view, 
For  with  Nature  his  wife  he  roams  across 
Between  the  brother  seas,  when  they  breathe 
To  her  songs  that  bring  the  beauty  blush. 
He  does  not  come  with  a  mighty  rush, 
But  soft  as  a  tinkling  lyric  lay, 
For  the  scenes  he  meets  upon  the  way 
In  our  lovely  land's  unpeered  array 
Bid  the  west  wind  his  advancing  stay, 
And  he  gains  their  character  so  sweet 
As  we  when  often  the  good  we  meet. 
Through  the  elms,  whose  trembling,  nerv 
ous  keys 

47 


48       Lay  to  the  West  Wind 

Are  cedillas  softening  sounds  of  breeze, 
Over  grassy  lawns  and  laurelled  leas, 
Through  the  fields  of  corn,  pretended  seas, 
Comes  in  beats  the  love-tune-laden  wind. 
Each  a  lost  chord  ne'er  to  be  defined, 
Each  a  harmony  sweet  and  refined, 
As   of   dryad's  virtued  voice  in  trees  con 
fined. 
Through  the  fragrant  heaps  of   new-mown 

hay, 

From  the  smellful  spots  where  lilacs  lay, 
With  the  clover  cologne  of  summer  day, 
And  the  perfumed  breath  of  dearest  May, 
Comes   the  west    wind   laden    with    odors 

sweet. 

With  its  gentle  gasps  it  bears  the  bleat 
Of  the  sheep  upon  the  sloping  mead, 
Of  their  stingless  gossip  as  they  feed, 
Or  stretched  beneath  a  leafy  shade, 
Contented,  calm  like  a  Quaker  maid ; 
Or  the  distant  mooing  of  the  cows, 
The  bugles  that  blow  at  set  of  sun, 
And  from  its  place  in  the  topmost  boughs 
The  cow-bunting  sounds  his  gurgling  fun. 
Ah,  sweet  is  thy  power,  O  tyrant  breeze ! 
We  will  willingly  take  Hume's  Histories 
That  herald  absolute  control, 
If  thou  wilt  usurp  the  horizon's  gates. 


Lay  to  the  West  Wind       49 

For  thou  art  the  kernel  and  the  soul 
Of  creation's  ripening  force.     Mandates 
From  thee  are  the  "Sesame  "  that  gives 
Entree  to  all  that  blossoms  and  lives. 


A  RESTLESS  SUMMER   EVENING 

I    IKE  monster  moths  the  wind-mills  wave 
**     Their  white  wings  in  the  breeze, 
Their  two  long  black  antennae  lave 
In  brooklet's  shallow  seas. 

Their  ghostly  guard  they  watchful  keep 
And  spring  their  rattle  clear, 
O'er  ev'ry  rumor  wind  blown  near 

Of  comrades  not  asleep. 

The  drum-beat  of  the  hyla  joins 

The  cricket  on  the  lea, 
That  stretching  down  almost  purloins 

The  spot  where  the  bank  should  be. 

And  answering  water-beetles  seek 
The  moonlight  on  the  creek, 
To  dress  their  raven  mail  to  fight 
Their  foe,  the  town  street-light. 

Array  themselves,  platoon  and  flank, 
And  steadily  ascend  the  bank, 
To  hyla's  drum  and  cricket's  fife, 
All  eager  and  all  life. 

50 


A  Restless  Summer  Evening  51 

And  then  the  restless  courtier  breeze 
Comes  whistling  through  the  trees ; 
Teaching  each  leaf  the  pibroch  trill 
Piped  by  the  whip-poor-will. 

O,  nervous  eve  of  summer-time, 

So  restless,  full  of  life, 
How  our  souls  respond  and  climb 

To  tingling,  vague,  sweet  strife ! 


WINTER 

"T1  IS  winter.     Through  the  leafless  trees 

Sing  not  the  birds ;  nor  in  the  ground 
Chirp  not  the  insects,  hum  not  the  bees; 
Naught    but   the   cold    wind's   mournful 
sound. 

The  face  of  Nature  seems  to  borrow 
The  stoic  silence  of  one  in  sorrow ; 
No  smile  our  chastened  natures  meet 
When  eager  bend  we  at  her  feet. 

Hither  and  thither  all  is  still, 

Hushed  is  each  busy,  bubbling  brook, 
Stopped  is  each  tiny  tinkling  rill, 

Sealed  all  with  pearl,  a  sacred  nook. 

Divers  are  the  pictures  Nature  brings, 

But  whether  the  snow  flies  or  spring  bird 

sings 

Blest  beauty  is  present,  and  here  e'er  to  stay, 
No  matter  how  balmy  or  chill  be  the  day. 

52 


THE   BREAKING   OF  THE   BUDS 

'"THE  month  whose  nature  gives  it  name 
*       Hath  laughing,  smiling  come. 
And  Nature  wakes  in  sweet  acclaim, 
That  was  so  sad  and  dumb. 

And  voices,  though  not  skilled  in  tune, 

Sound  to  our  waiting  ear 
As  sweetly  as  the  best  in  June, 

'T  is  absence  makes  them  dear. 

The  plaintive  pewee  builds  her  nest 
'Neath  bridge  that  spans  the  brook; 

In  times  of  danger  and  unrest 
It  seems  a  peaceful  nook. 

And  robin  to  the  opening  year 
Is  calling  "Quick!  "  in  fear 
Lest  we  should  lie  asleep  too  long 
And  shirk  the  opening  song. 

All  bring  good  gifts  to  noble-born, 
For  April  's  born  to-day ; 

53 


54     The  Breaking  of  the  Buds 

The   month    when    drear    rains    cloud    the 

morn, — 
At  noon  the  sunbeams  play. 

'T  is  then  the  brown  buds  burst  their  bonds, 

Reveal  the  wax-like  leaves; 
The  tiny,  stretching,  bashful  fronds 

That  tremble  forth  like  thieves. 

Encouraged  by  the  suckling  sun 

And  accommodating  rain, 
As  though  in  virtued  soil  ant-dune 

Whose  powers  fakirs  feign : 

They  fructify  with  magic  might, 
A  nation  in  a  night ; 
And  like  the  swift  chameleon  change 
The  brown  for  green  estrange. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

VX7HEN  winter's  cold  and  dismal  blast 

*       Comes  calling  bush  and  leaf  to  rest, 
To  tell  the  birds  their  song  is  past, 
And  helps  the  frost  till  Nature  's  dressed 
In  mourning  for  the  summer  dead, 
Then  blooms  a  tree  so  full  and  free, 
The  Christmas  Tree. 

In  foreign  lands  grows  the  bread-fruit  tree, 
And  trees  that  dishes  grow,  and  queerer  still, 
Right  here  at  home  we  egg-plants  see. 
But  here  indeed  grow  children's  toys, 
The  dolls  and  drums  for  girls  and  boys. 
Why  can't  it  e'er  in  blossom  be, 
This  Christmas  Tree  ? 

Each  year  discovered  all  anew 
By  white-robed  pigmies,  dearest  folk ; 
Each  mindful  of  the  rest,  and  brew 
No  storms  as  older  people  do 
When  they  discover  something  new. 
If  only  grown-folks  could  unearth 
Some  Christmas  Trees ! 

55 


56          The  Christmas  Tree 


A  Christmas  tree  to  turn  our  thought 
To  share  our  brother's  joy  and  rue, 
As  oft  we  watch  the  children  do. 
The  fond  solicitude  for  some  one  else 
Which  all  resolved  hatred  melts, 
The  childish  joy  at  others'  gain 

Around  the  Christmas  Tree. 


PROPHECIES   OF  SPRING 

COON   Nature  from  the  pupal  state  will 
^     wake, 

Bud  blithely  the  blest  empurpled  wings 
Of  spring  and   summerward    its  flight  will 

make, 

Imago-like  from  bright  to  brighter  things. 
And  birdlings  their  unfictile  song  will  sing, 
Tiny  but  touching  tones  of  joy  they  ring, 
Echoed  as  on  the  green-gowned  flowerlet 
The  butterflies  sweet-sipping  sit, 
Content  in  silence  their  short  stay  to  live. 
E'en  the  lakes  and  rivulets  run  restive 
From   out  their    prisoning    white   winter's 

snail-shell 

And  leap  joyfully  down  the  awakened  dell. 
And  Nature  awakened  without,  within, 
Will  praise  the  Creator,  still  or  with  song, 
With  voices  all  varied  though  theme  is  akin. 


57 


MY  FLOCKS 

A  SUMMER   LAMENT 

JVA  Y  flocks  have  wandered  far, 

*    *     No  more  they  line  the  bar, 

My  shepherd  is  asleep, 

Far  flown  his  precious  keep, 

Alone  their  fallacy  I  weep 

As  baby  o'er  her  cloud-choked  star, 

O'er  those  who  've  wandered  far. 

The  West  wind  wafts  perfume, 

But  my  dear  flocks  are  fled. 

The  East  wind  was  my  Crook, 

Why  was  his  work  forsook  ? 

He  fought  the  North  wind,  wolf  of  fear, 

In  stormy  fight  both  met  their  doom, 

The  marbled  pole  's  their  tomb. 

The  West  wind  wafts  perfume, 
It  's  but  the  ghost  of  dead, 
The  North  wind  and  the  East, 

58 


My  Flocks  59 

It  cannot  find  my  flocks  who  've  fled, 
The  trail  they  left  is  of  the  least, 
And  I  must  sit  in  gloom, — 
My  fruitless  watch  assume. 

The  West  wind  wafts  perfume ; 
What  are  my  flocks  you  say? 
The  gulls  and  hawks  are  they 
That  on  a  Northeast  winter  day 
They  line  the  bar  within  the  bay ; 
Their  pasture  is  the  spume 
Unriped  by  West's  perfume. 


FROST 

\17HEN  the  summer-time  is  done, 

When  the  winter  's  just  begun, 
For  an  artist  from  the  skies, 
To  remove  the  summer  dyes 
Apropos  for  winter's  eyes, 
Nature  sends. 

You  may  see  him  tint  the  flowers 
And  the  leaf  that  shrinks  and  cowers 
In  deep  dyes  of  gold  and  red ; 
And  the  tiny  nested  nuts 
Rudely  broken  from  their  bed 
By  his  hand. 

On  the  windows  works  his  art, 
As  he  etches  mimic  hills, 
Boundless  woods  or  single  trees. 
Broad  lagoons  that  run  to  rills ; 
Many  scenes  the  Frost  can  freeze 
With  his  brush. 

With  an  imitation  snow, 
Deftly  draws  a  garden  white, 
Turning  back  the  sun-sent  light 

60 


Frost  6 1 

With  an  opal's  rainbow  hue, 
Covering  o'er  the  weaker  dew 
On  the  ground. 

Thus  the  fairy  artist  Frost 
Works  his  will,  near  winter-time. 
'T  is  the  winter's  first  attempt 
Making  snow.     A  signal  chime 
Tells  the  world  its  harvests  reap, 
Then  to  sleep. 


T  IS  TIME  THE  THRUSH  TRAVELS 
HOME 

"T1  WAS  only  yesterday  I  heard  the  thrush, 
*  In  conversation  with  its  mate, 

So  soft  but  all  distinct  in  morning  hush ; — 
"For  thrushes  here  the  time  grows  late, 

"And  now  where  shall  we  go,  sweet  darling 

mine, 

To  Southern  lands  of  palm  and  pine? 
Or  West  to  Angeles'  flowery  fields, 
That  for  our  nest  sweet  rose-leaves  yields  ? 

"Or  to  the  Aztec's  mystery -weaving  walls, 
And  build  our  nest  in  rocky  cleft? 

For  from  the  trees  the  leaf  already  falls, 
And  soon  no  nesting  will  be  left." 

And  then  I  watched  them  fly  to  far-off  South, 
The  land  the  sunshine  ne'er  forgets. 

I  hear  the  farewell  song  from  out  his  mouth, 
Till  softer,  softer  still,  it  gets. 

62 


The  Thrush  63 

So   sweet   but   sad   the   song   now   says, — 

"Farewell, 

Wee-o,  wee-o,  tit-ti,  wee-o." 
Who  love  the  birds  these  tones  a  blessing  tell, 
'Cept   when   they  sound  as   now, — "We 
go." 

Our  gray-cheeked  friends  have  fellow-trav 
ellers, 

For  summer  soon  will  yield  her  sway, 
And  weary  winter  weather  no  song  lures ; 

We  soon  will  toil  through  tuneless  day. 


THE   GRASSHOPPERS 

A  CROSS  the  tessellated  spring-time  fields, 
**     Whose  furrows  ordered  interlace, 
The  fields  that  grudging  the  country  road 
way  yields, 
That    runs  like  a  brook  through   grassy 

place, 
These  insects  happy  leap    from  square  to 

square, 
As  though  a  game  of  draughts  was  there. 

And  wearied  with  their  short-winged  flight, 
they  dive 

In  the  road,  then  rise  all  wet  with  dust, 
E'er  trying  to  show  how  much  they  are  alive. 

Then  'neath  a  leaf  their  head  they  thrust, 
As  if  ashamed  of  their  dust-bedraggled  suit, 
Whose  sombre  hue  's  e'en  more  acute. 

This  dull  brown  garb  is  changed  while  on  the 

wing 

For  clothes  of  velvet,  black  and  white, 
Like  Norman  monks'  gowns  but  a  covering 

64 


The  Grasshoppers  65 

For  satin  cloak  with  ermine  white. 
And,  too,  when  watched  they  sit  like  judges 

gray; 
Be  unconcerned  and  see  their  play. 

So  many  leaping  all  around,  it  's  strange, 
While  their  positions  quickly  change, 
That  their  mosaic-vision  's  always  true 
And  ne'er  confuses  any  view. 
But  any  one  possessing  checkered  eyes 
At  jumping  should  capture  the  prize. 


THE   FIREFLY 

\  17 HEN  the  gales  of  the  daytime  have  all 

passed  away, 
That   the  touch  of   the   twilight  has   kind 

smoothed  away, 
Comes  the  firefly,  St.   Elmo's   Fire  of  the 

wood, 
Prophesying  from  storm  a  repose  calm  and 

good. 

Scattered  sparks  from  the  smithy  the  wood 
land  employs 

To  fashion  a  covering  of  sable  mail, 
To  envelop  the  forest  in  proof  against  noise 
And  the   laboring   mood   that    in    daytime 
prevail. 

Tiny  torches  the  blossoms  are  bearing  along, 
As  they  come  in  the  night  to  the  buds  they 

belong, 
To  surprise  you  and  me.     Here  and  thither 

they  fly 
In  the  search  for  the  stem  that  they  should 

occupy. 

66 


The  Firefly  67 

We  can  be  little  fireflies  in  earth's  sin-dark 

night, 
Tiny  sparks  from  the  forge  of  the  Maker  of 

light. 
Lighting  flowers  to  buds  that  some  chance 

seed  has  sown, 
To  a  life  fit  for  worker  and  not  for  a  drone. 


THE  BROKEN  BOUGH'S  LAMENT 

AN  INDIAN  SONG  OF  JEALOUSY 

Broken  Bough,  a  chief   of   the   Delawares ;    Hawta,   his 
faithless  wife  ;  Morfa,  his  enemy  ;  Ossier,  his  son. 

THE   THREAT 

VOLT  stole  from  me  who  loved  her, 

With  soft  words  gained  her  glance ; 
Your  piercing  words  have  charmed  her, 
But  sharper  still  's  my  lance ! 
You  wooed  her  from  my  wigwam, 
And  bade  my  heart  be  calm, 
That,  swelling  like  the  torrent 
With  floods  that  clouds  have  sent, 
But  waiteth  for  the  moment 
To  break  with  wild  intent. 
Or  mighty  wind  of  Heaven, 
Disdaining  looks  on  men, 
With  power  to  wreak  its  vengeance, 
But,  waiting,  hate  contents. 

68 


Broken  Bough's  Lament      69 

The  storm  that  's  lashed  for  hours 

With  sullen,  angry  hate, 

Is  calling  in  its  powers 

To  wield  a  mightier  fate. 

Beware  my  vengeance,  Morfa, 

Thy  trail  shall  e'er  be  mine, 

And  like  the  dreaded  cobra, 

Who  mate's  loss  doth  repine, 

I  '11  follow  thee  at  hunting, 

And  like  a  hawk  watch  thee ! 

Till,  when  your  triumph  's  ringing, 

And  honored  is  your  tepee, 

Like  an  avenging  panther 

Then  in  your  tent  I  '11  spring, 

And  Hawta  then  I  '11  woo  her, 

My  old  love-songs  I  '11  sing, 

And,  smiling,  thee  will  defy 

To  brook  the  lion's  wrath; 

And  see  then  'fore  Hawta's  eye 

Who  '11  tread  the  lonesome  path. 

For  thou  hast  stolen  from  me 

The  rosebud  of  my  life, 

The  morning  dawn  in  beauty, 

The  sweetest  song  her  life. 

You  stole  from  me  who  loved  her, 

With  soft  words  gained  her  glance, 

Your  piercing  words  have  charmed  her, 

But  sharper  still 's  my  lance. 


70      Broken  Bough's  Lament 

LAMENT 

0,  Hawta,  fairest  lily 
That  Manitou  hath  made, 

And  thou  who  deigned  to  love  me, 
To  bright  the  gloomy  shade ! 
My  wigwam  was  without  a  flower, 
As  like  an  ugly  stone 
From  resting-place  is  thrown 
And  then  a  handsome  flower 
Is  sown  where  all  was  dark. 
Oh,  wilt  thou,  choice  relenting, 
Roll  back  the  crushing  stone? 
And  there  my  flower  choking, 
My  happiness  o'erthrown. 
My  life  is  like  the  roses 
When  sun  hath  hid  its  grace, 
And  fading  now  reposes 
All  crushed  'neath  sorrow's  pace. 
Oh,  wood-dove  of  the  forest, 
My  love,  Majella,  hear; 

1,  first  in  every  conquest, 
Who  scorn  both  death  and  fear, 
Am  mourning  like  a  woman, 
With  wisdom  of  a  child. 
Myself  my  fiercest  foeman 
From  bootless  thoughts  and  wild ! 
Come  back,  oh,  come  back  to  me, 


Broken  Bough's  Lament      71 

I  '11  willing  all  forgive, 

If  thou  art  now  unhappy, 

All  happiness  I  '11  give. 

Why  couldst  thou  not  be  happy, 

Contented,  when  with  me; 

I  loved  thee,  served  thee  truly, 

Respectfully,  tenderly. 

No  burdens  didst  thou  bear  me, 

They  were  for  harsher  ones ; 

I  bade  thee  be  contented, 

And  tell  me  what  to  do 

To  make  your  life  rose-scented, 

That  was  your  hardest  rue. 

I  sit  beside  my  tepee 

(The  bravest  in  the  town 

But  gone  now  is  its  beauty, 

As  storm-clouds  sun-days  drown) 

And  watch  our  little  Ossier 

Go  running  up  and  down, 

Or  stealthily  like  the  panther 

The  butterfles  surprise 

With  cunning  of  his  father; 

But,  caught,  he  loosed  his  prize, 

With  love  gained  from  his  mother. 

How  canst  thou  leave  our  darling, 

Who  needs  a  mother's  care? 

Come  back,  oh,  come  back  to  me, 

Thou  sweetest  and  most  fair ! 


72      Broken  Bough's  Lament 

Oh,  wilt  thou,  past  forgetting 

How  I  have  worshipped  thee, 

Blight  lives  so  unrelenting, 

Of  loved  son  and  me  ? 

Farewell,  then,  dearest  sweetheart, 

Farewell,  ye  forests  old, 

Farewell  to  scenes  that  were  so  sweet, 

Now  like  a  story  told 

Of  happy  freedom  once  possessed 

To  captive  foe  harassed. 


MY  VALENTINE 

A  H,  Cupid,  bring  me  back  my  valentine 
**     And  sow  it  round  with  eglantine, 
Where  as  I  sent  forget-me-nots  there  grew. 
You  charmed  her  not,  you  bade  me  woo ! 
Forget-me-not?    Ah,  yes,  for  lack  of  care 
Those  flowers  have  wilted,  faded  where 
A  moment  hence  in  joy  and  promise  placed, 
Were  watched  and  nursed  in  nervous  haste. 

And  with  that  valentine  I  sent  my  heart, 
Transfixed  with  your  now  painful  dart, 
That  in  the  suddenness  of  ecstasy 
Made  numb,  the  wound  was  feeling-free. 
You  say  this  grief  will  last  as  did  the  joy? 
For  years  did  I  my  pride  employ 
To  wrap  the  rue  in  insult  without  grief, 
The  hidden  thorn  still  mars  the  leaf. 

Go,  bring  my  broken  heart,  o'er  it  I  '11  weep, 
The  truant  card  I  '11  carefully  keep, 
And  mourn  in  silence  at  the  lonely  grave 
Jt  marks, — for  love  that  life  me  gave 

73 


74  My  Valentine 

Hast  also  taken  life.     Perhaps  some  day — 
Who  knows?  her  wandering  feet  may  find 
That  grave;    I  '11  keep   fresh-flowered  and 

waiting  stay, 
Our  forget-me-nots  may  grow  entwined. 


THE   LABORER'S   SONG 


Lord,  I  pray  Thee  not  to  make 
Me  an  immune  to  toil. 
The  lives  of  leisure  that  forsake 

The  working  of  the  soil 
Are  spent  in  weeding  thorny  roots, 
With  trouble  as  their  fruits. 

But  harden  hands  that  hold  the  plow 

To  dress  life's  stony  field, 
To  fling  the  furrow  straight  allow, 

To  rock  and  root  ne'er  yield. 
The  hardness  of  a  work  depends 
On  strength  that  courage  lends. 

E'en  if  the  trouble-ridged  glebe 

With  sorrow's  frost  is  white, 
Deep  down,  safe-hidden  from  the  sight 

And  contaminating  blight, 
Lies  the  green  and  growing  seed, 
From  darkest  days  lies  freed  :  — 

75 


76         The  Laborer's  Song 

The  seed  that  's  sown  by  Thy  great  love 

Pregnant  with  prophecy 
Of  rest  and  life  with  Thee  above. 

The  surface  sorrow  frost 
Warmed  and  melted  is  the  source 
Of  strong,  fructifying  force. 

Dear  Lord,  I  pray  Thee  not  to  make 

Me  an  immune  to  toil. 
"Wreaths  gained  of  vanity  shall  forsake, 

But  those  of  labored  toil 
Shall  e'er  increase,"  so  make  me  strong. 
Thus  ran  the  laborer's  song. 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE 

HP  HE  bells  announce  the  old  year  speeds, 
But  by  self-queries  nearly  drowned, — 
Count  not  thy  years  by  days  but  deeds, 
Call  not  complete  lest  victory  crowned. 

When  on  that  day  my  years  unrolled 
I  glance  along  what  they  unfold, 
Shall  this  which  trembling  waits  to  fall 
Stand  o'er  the  rest  more  bright  and  tali? 

As  miser  shines  his  last-earned  coin 
And  lays  so  tender  by  the  rest, 

Which  even  want  cannot  purloin, 
Is  my  last  year  the  brightest,  best? 

If  not,  e'en  want  cannot  recall. 

As  bad  associates  e'er  seduce, 
Will  passing  year  pollute  them  all? 

I  trust  't  will  brighter  power  produce. 

Dear  God,  to  whom  for  help  we  bow, 
Give  strength  to  keep  the  well-meant  vow ; 
Give  new-born  year  the  best  of  earth, 
As  wise  men  at  the  Savior's  birth. 

77 


A  DULL  DAY 

T  'M  sad  to-day.     The  west  winds  waft  the 

fogs  away 

That  lingered  o'er  the  bay. 
The  drizzling  damp  so  drear  starts  now  to 

disappear, 
But  melancholy  's  here. 


My   sleeping    soul   is   prone   to   think   the 

wind, 

With  feeling  far  from  kind, 
Hath  taken  from  round  but  left  the  mist  on 

future  planned. 
Ambition  's  lost  demand. 

The  butterflies  and  bees  so  bright  my  life 

did  light, 

They  sleep,  they  think  't  is  night ; 
And   sun   sick   with   the   sinning   world    in 

mourning  stays 
To  hide  in  clouds  its  rays. 

78 


A  Dull  Day  79 

In  grief  I  turn  for  robin's  cheer  or  catbird's 

call, 

But  sorrow  stills  them  all. 
The  trees  are  hung  with  tears  like  crystals 

from  a  cave, 
The  mourning  mist  these  gave. 

But  contrast  clings  in  scenes  like  this.     The 

sun  more  bright 
Will  seem  to  our  waiting  sight 
When  once  again  it  shines.     The  songs  from 

silence  steep 
Will  seem  more  sweet  and  deep. 


A   SUMMER   SHOWER 

EE  the  tiny  spheres  of  rain 
As  in  merry  play  they  run 

Down  the  pane. 
As  the  storm  has  just  begun, 
They  have  time  to  while  away 
In  sweet  play. 

By  and  by  their  speed  's  so  swift, 
Down  the  glass  they  drift 

Like  a  brook. 

And  the  drops  all  fade  away, 
In  their  work  no  time  for  play. 

As  we  look 


Through  the  screen  of  pearly  beads, 
Of  the  trees  and  flowers  one  reads 

In  clear  song. 

When  the  rain  new  life  it  brings 
From  their  gala  gowns  joy  rings 

All  day  long. 
80 


A  Summer  Shower 


And  the  rivulets  repeat 

To  the  bending,  listening  wheat 

Joyful  thanks. 

'Gainst  the  scorching  sun's  long  siege 
Reinforced  once  more  they  flow 

O'er  their  banks. 

For  the  rain  we  thank  thee,  Lord, 
'T  is  a  blessing  we  can  ill  afford 

E'er  to  lose. 

Though  it  mars  our  plans  and  plays, 
It  's  a  joy  in  other  ways, 

That  we  choose. 

6 


A  PRISONER 

A    PRISONER    I,  what  though   through 
**   golden  bars 
I  see  the  sun  and  scan  the  stars 
'T  is  yet  not  freedom's  air  I  daily  drink. 
Sometimes  my  memory  's  wrong,  I  think. 

My  former  life  seems  such  unsullied  bliss, 
As  like  a  dream  when  viewed  from  this. 
Long  since  I   came   from    sunny  southern 

Spain 
Where  naught  but  happiness  had  reign. 

One  day  they  caught  and  bound  and  blinded 

me, 

A  long,  long  time  I  could  not  see; 
And  when  at  last  unbound  I  looked  around 
In  a  prison's  gloom  myself  I  found. 

Alas !  the  same  as  tiny  plant  peeped  through 
With  timid  strength  coaxed  by  the  dew, 
Instead  of  sunny  scene  she  'd  heard  it  told 
Found  snow-numbed  Nature  bleak  and  cold. 
82 


A  Prisoner  83 

No  more   through  green-gowned  groves  of 

trees  I  fly, 

Through  air  of  song  that  ne'er  did  die, 
And  sunbeams  gilding  all  with  warmth  of 

love 
Awakening  praise  below,  above. 

My  friends  the  birds  in  hymns  with  insects 

vied, 

We  sang  all  day  and  never  sighed ; 
Our  hearts  were  light  and  more  our  limbs 

were  free 
To  seek  society. 

And  now  I  see  the  sun  but  flecked  across 
With  blackened  bars  of  freedom's  loss. 
God  made  us  birds  to  fly  and  fill  the  air  with 

song; 
To  catch  and  cage  the  weak  't  is  wrong. 


A  BUTTERFLY 

SWEET  symbol  of  God's  tender  grace, 
White  wanderer  who  dread  death  dis 
dains, 
Breathe  the  secret  of  thy  filmy  race 

Immured    from    doublings,    griefs,    and 

pains. 

Teach  us  from  Nature's  heavenly  art 
Of  sweet  submission  from  an  humble  heart. 

While  wrapped  in  wooded  crypt  do  you 
Leave  useless  body  here  at  rest, 

To  flit  in  joy  in  loving  view 

Of  the  dear  Master?     Then  art  blessed 

And  back  to  weary  earth  come  down 

Part  dressed  with  wings  in  Heaven's  gown? 

Is  it  true  that  you  too  possess, 

In  common  with  your  neighbor,  Man, 

The  aches  and  soul-straining  sadness 
Of  past  deeds  done  with  present's  ban  ? 

But  better  knowing  God's  demands 

Your  sorrows  leave  at  His  commands  ? 
84 


A  Butterfly  85 

A  far  sublimer  thought  is  this : 

Thou  knowest  naught  of  sorrow's  sting, 
Naught  but  blithe  Nature's  loving  kiss, 

And  doing  e'er  the  godly  thing, 
For,  knowing  but  the  simple  good, 
No  evil  by  you  understood. 


SCATTERED   PETALS 


THE  SPEECHLESS  SERMON 

1 N  striking  bold  relief  displayed 

*     By  rising  sun's  soft,  soothing  gray 

conveyed, 

This  ancient  home  of  chivalry 
Stands  told,  a  tale  of  past  glory. 
Methinks   e'en    now  the   knights   with 

squires, 

And  armed  as  though  the  time  requires, 
Are  passing  in  through  blazoned  gate, 
With  bugle  call  and  shows  of  state. 
But  this  is  all  of  long  ago ; 
10.    Only  as  bits  of  sound  are  heard  and  lost 
When    winds    waft    to   then   from    us 

blow, 

Thus  more  impress  the  silence's  cost. 
So  visions  bright  soon  disappear, 
To  leave  this  place  it  seems  more  drear. 
Time's  seal  is  placed  on  portal-post 
And  ivy-cloaked  the  walls  seem  part 
Of  Nature's  work,   once  proud  man's 

boast. 

89 


90      The  Speechless -Sermon 

Which  stands  the  higher  in  point  of  art? 
And  e'en  the  courtyard,  stage  of  scene, 

20.  Which  history  tells  and  we  but  dream, 
Now  paved  in  rough  marquetry  work, 
And  green  peeps  round  each  crumbling 

block, 

And  bees  and  beetles  countless  lurk 
Where  noble  hounds  were  wont  to  flock. 
So  now  the  rising  sun  portrayed 
This  haven  of  Welch  from  Norman  raid. 
Inside,  the  centuries'  marking  hands 
Have  left  no  velvet  hung  on  walls 
That  once  were  splendrous  arched  halls, 

30.    Where   banquet   song   and  toast   were 

given, 

And  stand  was  made  for  land  so  striven. 
And  as  in  years  long  since  gone  by 
This  castle  rang  with  numbers  high 
Of  many  a  noble  and  brave  knight, 
So  quick  for  home  to  arm  and  fight, 
Ah,    now    but    one    this     place    calls 

"home," 

A  poor  and  lonely  man,  whose  dome 
Of  life  is  but  to  work  at  will 
On  garden  plot  in  part  of  court, 

40.    The  tiny  flower  field  to  till. 
He  lived  in  sweet  simplicity, 
Alas !  't  was  not  so  sweet  as  seems, 


The  Speechless  Sermon      91 

For  though  with  deep  intensity 

He  loved   the  woods,  the  brooks,  the 

streams, 

He  knew  not  Him  who  made  all  these, 
Who  gave  the  song  to  birds  and  bees. 
Tried  he  to  learn  to  love  the  Lord, 
Till  marks  of  pain  wrote  on  his  brow 
And  heart  had  sorrow  stored. 
50.    'T  is  far  the  hardest  cross  to  bear, — 
When  one  in  search  of  Heavenly  grace, 
As  earthly  pains  at  heart  they  tear, 
But  knowing  not  where  Savior's  face 
Is  turned  cannot  to  Him  run  home, 
And  take  the  blessed  comfort  there 
When  too   tired    and    faint    more    to 

roam. 

Year  in,  year  out,  he  grieved  and  prayed, 
And  fitting  penitence  was  made, 
But  still  no  rest  was  sent  to  him, 
60.    Till  last  it  came  when  hope  was  dim. 
By  some  small,  simple  errand  led 
To  donjon  dark  on  left  of  keep, 
The  only  place  by  sun  not  reached, 
Where  dark  unwaked  had  lain  asleep 
Through  a  night  of  many  varied  scenes, 
And  heard  nor  seen  what  passed  with 
out, 
As  different  masters  by  various  means 


92      The  Speechless  Sermon 

Acquired  the  fort ;  but  all  held  out 
That   this   grim   tower  was  their   best 
power 

70.    A  stubborn  heart  to  break  and  part. 
So  as  the  man  went  in  this  day 
A  tinge  of  sadness  touched  his  soul. 
He  thought  of  prisoners  passed  away 
Their  lives  with  suffering  in  this  hole. 
And  he,  not  far  removed  from  them, 
Was  prisoner  of  a  sterner  foe, 
For  consciences  when  held  by  them 
Are  strict  and  un  appeased  bring  woe. 
And,  too,  his  dungeon  was  so  dark 

80.    Where  ne'er  a  ray  of  light  shone  in, 
And   his   heart  with  awe  and  sadness 

throbbed. 

But  what  is  that  on  the  floor  in  front ! 
Is  't  beast  or  bird  of  freedom  robbed, 
Or  victim  of  some  ghostly  hunt? 
With  wonder,  fear,  and  reverence 
He  picks  the  object  from  its  bed, 
Where  by  its  dust-draped  appearance 
Long  time  had  lain  in  chamber  dread. 
With  what  a  feeling  then  he  looks 

90.    On  one  of  that  Christianity's  books 
That  he  in  vain  so  long  had  sought ! 
What  memories,  too,  this  Bible  brought 
Of  one  who  taught  him  at  her  knee 


The  Speechless  Sermon      93 

When  heart  was  light  and  conscience 

free! 

A  burning  tear  stole  down  his  cheek. 
He  asked  not  how  it  happened  there, 
Nor  wished  for  further  things  to  seek, 
He  knew  that  silent,  dusty  Book 
Was  leading  link  to  peace  and  rest. 

IOO.    And  kneeling  there,  the  Book  he  took; 
These  cheering  words  his  eyes  arrest : — 
"How  say  ye  to  my  soul, 
Flee  as  a  bird  to  your  mountain? " 
So  the  birds  that  he  saw  and  studied 
In  God  reposed  their  every  trust, 
And  God  giving  strength  they  hurried 
To  the  rest  of  the  Maker's  love. 
So  love  of  Nature  joined  to  thought 
Of  passage  read  conversion  brought. 

no.    And  God  from  seat  of  power  above 

Stretched  down  a  hand,  assistance  gave. 
And  tired,  sick  soul  on  wings  of  grace 
Then  fled  to  Him  who  soon  forgave. 
Rest,  peace,  and  joy  flood  o'er  his  face, 
He  's  happy  now  as  busy  bird  turned 

home 

Leaves  trials  that  infest  his  roam 
And  wisps  to  mate  and  young  the  tale 
How  Christ  takes  care  of  tired  and  frail. 
Just  list  ye  here  who  suffering  read, — 


94      The  Speechless  Sermon 

1 20.    Ye  delve  too  deep  for  rest  indeed; 
Just  catch  the  song  that  insects  sing, 
And    hear    the    birds    bear    too    the 

melody. 

All  through  the  works  of  Nature  ring 
The  songs  of  sweet  simplicity 
That  tell : — All  ye  who  're  sick  and  sad, 
Flee  home  to  Christ,  He  '11  make  you 
glad. 


MUSIC 

A  S  on  a  quiet  sleeping  woodland  stream 
**     A  weeping-willow  leaf  in  falling  wakes 
The  resting  riplets  ranged  in  tiny  troughs 
Of  space,  which  gliding  'cross  lingering  lisp 
To  the  farther  shore ;  so  music  on  the  ear 
Takes  sweet  consolation  to  sorrowing  souls, 
Souls  that  sleeping,  o'ercome  with  deep  de 
pression, 

Are  rippled  into  a  sense  of  the  being. 
As  from  side  to  side  slipped  the  water-waves, 
So  one  directed  note  of  magic  music  delves 
Into  the  darkest  dungeons  of  our  hearts, 
Brings  forth  the  long-hid  brightness  buried 

there 

By  some  past  secret  sorrow  that  unbidden 
Stays  still,  our  visions  of  the  future  mars, 
Our  thoughts  of  past  to  tinge  in  bitter 

shade. 

All  ages  knew  thy  power  on  mortal  emotions, 
All  epochs  thy  power  to  soothe  or  waken 
The  fierce  feelings  of  war  or  prayers  of  peace. 
95 


96  Music 

Thy  voice  in  various  tones  to  earth  comes 

down 
With   softened    syllables   from    ill-wrought 

pipes 

Beguiled  in  Paradise's  Park  the  four, 
'Cept  one  from  whom  all  nations  take  their 

birth ; 
Or   ringing  round  the  wayward  walls  kept 

time, 

As  seven-circled  Jericho  was  taken. 
'T  is  made  or  listened  to  by  all  earth's  life 
'Cept  one  or  two  mainly  Canidae  tribe, 
Whose  ears  of  more  acute  sensitiveness 
Catch    waves    which,    quickly    moving,    us 

escape. 

They  hear  the  faintest  incongruities 
Which  striking  pierce  their  feeling  ears  with 

pain. 

When  ponder  we  on  immortality 
And  on  that  life  existing  after  death, 
The  music  plays  a  most  important  part. 
And  ever  when  we  wish  to  write  or  speak 
Of  aught  that 's  sweet  and  soft  and  lulls  our 

souls 
We    call   it   song,    that    word    itself    says 

' '  sleep. ' ' 


THE  DEVON  COAST 

"THROUGH  the  mists  of   the  sheltering 
sea-fogs 

A  vision  of  beauty  we  see, 
As  ploughing  through  spray  that  sight  clogs 

The  land  lies  to  view  on  our  lee. 

After  months  of  surging  storm  on  the  ocean 

We  at  rest  in  the  harbor  lie, 
With  scarce  a  wave-move  or  a  motion, 

Though  wind  and  the  fog  are  yet  nigh. 

But  when  through  the  dismal  dawn  of  the 
morn 

The  shining  sun  in  splendor  breaks, 
Then  the  fading  fog  from  its  place  is  torn, 

The  wind  his  departure  he  takes. 

And  then  to  our  eyes  without  aught  to  stop 

A  heavenly  picture  appears, 
As  though  us  from  work  to  drop 

Neptune  this  paradise  rears. 

97 


98  The  Devon  Coast 


From  the  water's  wave  to  the  steep  hill's 

crest 

Are  green-clothed  farms  and  tiny  towns 
In  the  springtime's  blest  freshened  beauty, 

rest, 

Framed    round    with   purpled   cliffs   and 
downs. 

And  grazing  quietly  on  the  sloping  fields, 
The  countless  clouds  of  cattle  climb, 

And  softly  stirring  with  light  lowing  yields 
The  west  wind  their  joy-ringing  rhyme. 


THE   SAILOR'S   STORY 

CIRST  let  me  tell  about  the  house  wherein 

I  stopped 
When  this  true  tale  was  told  to  me.     With 

tall  trees  topped 
And  girdled  round  with  gooseberry  vines,  a 

view  so  bright 
The  scene  *s  in  memory  still  and  years  scarce 

dim  the  sight. 
Well-built  of  rough-hewn  blocks  of   stone, 

the  ivy  green 
Clings  close  as  curtains  grand  on  a  stage  help 

out  the  scene. 
Within,  the  spacious  dining-room  was  tyrant 

here 
And  all  the  other  rooms  withdrew  up-stairs 

in  fear. 

Across  one  end  that  grandest  piece  of  house 
hold  art 
The  family  fireplace  stood,  warmed  body, 

thought,  and  heart. 
But  still  the  room  was  cold  and  drear  one 

man  without, 

99 


ioo         The  Sailor's  Story 

Our   landlord    happy,    gay,    and   wise;   he, 

though  quite  stout, 

No  one  so  quick  for  other's  needs  or  kind 
ness  show. 
Many  men  came  here  and  many  I  learned  to 

know, 
Diversified  in  bearing,   means,   and   depth. 

But  one 
My  interest  gained,  and,  too,  his  confidence 

I  won. 

From  youth  he  'd  sailed  the  known  and  un 
known  seas. 
And   touching   tales   he   told  of  scenes   so 

strange,  though  true, 
Of  cannibals  and  gentler  tribes.     Of  coral 

keys, 
Of   trees   that    formed   a   fane    adorned   in 

brightest  hue. 
But  my  mind  was  touched  when,  drawn  by 

I  know  not  what, 
In  gentler   tones  he   told  of   those   'mong 

whom  his  lot 
Some  time  had  cast,  the  Indians  Caribbee, 

so  near 
My  own  dear  country,  too.     And  legends 

he  'd  learned  here 
When  sung  my  heart  went  to  these  simple 

men  whom  he 


The  Sailor's  Story          101 

Was  wont  to  "Nature's  Nation"  name,  and 

well  bestowed. 
But  memory  's  e'er  a  fickle  friend  and  brings 

to  me 
But  one  sad  song  of  these,  I  '11  tell  if  you 

please. 
It  oft  returns  to  me  with  thoughts  of  those 

I  've  known, 
The  long,  sweet  hours  we  sat  and  talked  of 

strange  sailed-seas. 
Perhaps  a  friend  as  he  's  seen  me  sit  by 

hours  alone 
Has  thought  it  strange,  that  saddened  smile 

at  naught  he  sees. 
That  old  Welch  Inn,  I  see  it  still,  and  years 

scarce  dim  the  sight, 
But   lingers  on.      Perhaps  once  more  I  '11 

wander  there 
And  greet  my  friend.     Sometimes  I    wish 

I  'd  sailed  with  him; 
Would  mournful  memory  mock  as  now  it 

does  my  mind? 
I  could  not  change  this  persecuted  people's 

woe, 
My  mind  might  more  revolt  at  that  which 

there  I  'd  find. 


THE  TALE   OF  TAWAH 

A    CHIEF  in  silence  stood  one  day 
**     Where  Tobasco's  tide  flows  in  the  bay ; 
His  grave  but  gentle  face  was  lined 
With  deep-drawn  marks  of  thought  that  told 
Of  more  than  common  cultured  mind ; 
And  eyes  both  tender,  bright,  and  bold. 
These  eyes  were  turned  toward  open  seas, 
And  trouble,  sorrow,  shone  in  these. 

Behind  him  smoke  in  snaky  strings 
Slow  trickled  to  the  sky.     Sometimes 
From  happy  souls  sweet  laughter  rings; 
His  sigh  that  'scapes  scarce  rhymes. 
He  hears  his  wife,  Suava,  sing 
To  lull  in  sleep  their  babe  so  dear, 
That  bears  his  father's  name,  Tawah. 
The  chief's  head  sank  to  hide  a  tear. 

The  watch  had  called  his  chief  to  view 
A  fast  approaching  sail.     In  view 
Of  tales  he  'd  heard  of  Spanish  deeds, 


The  Tale  of  Tawah         103 


The  chief  with  anxious  thought  now  reads 

Of  danger  dread  his  tribe  impends. 

Unskilled  in  war,  in  simple  trust 

They  live,  no  controversy  rends, 

All  thoughts  of  war  away  they  'd  thrust. 

He  hears  some  steps  that  sweet  resound 
In  well-known  notes  upon  the  ground. 
"My  lord,  the  sun  prepares  for  sleep; 
What  sees  Tawah  that  should  him  keep 
Away  from  lodge  where  braves  are  met 
And  smoke  their  pipes  of  peace  and  set 
The  toils  that  each  must  do  next  morn 
When  shining  Sun-god  's  once  more  born?  " 

He  tells  her  not  what  most  he  fears, 
But  arm  in  arm  they  homeward  turn. 
With  whispered  songs  that  strike  our  ears 
When  sung  in  simple  tongue  like  theirs, 
As  murmuring  meadow  brooks  that  run 
With  tinkling  tread  o'er  mounds  of  moss, 
Though  years  bridged  wedded  life  across, 
Their  courtship  seemed  as  just  begun. 

They  passed  through  groups  in  joyful  play, 
And  older  ones  with  straw  so  gay 
Were  weaving  baskets  bright.     The  men 
From  hunting  just  returned  all  sat 


104        The  Tale  of  Tawah 


And  smoked  in  silence  deep,  for  when 
An  Indian  council  meets  they  make 
No  speech  till  something  they  have  to  say ; 
That  's  not  quite  like  our  council's  way. 

The  drum  was  beat,  the  men  repaired 
To  council-lodge,  where  ill-prepared 
The  sober  news  the  chief  made  known. 
And  now  these  men  of  peaceful  mind 
Were   changed   and   darkening    looks   were 

thrown 

Toward  intruding  foe.     The  man  most  kind, 
When  aught  against  his  loved  one  turns, 
Is  made  a  fury's  fire  that  burns. 

The  gentler  ones  that  night  reposed 
In  sleep  that  simple  safety  gave. 
But  many  heads  no  sleep  proposed ; 
Their  souls  a  safer  state  did  crave. 
At  morn  the  Spanish  sailors  land, 
Indulged  their  roughened  sport  all  round, 
Received  in  patience  by  the  band 
Till  act  that  lost  their  minds'  command. 

Tawah  with  tiny  shaft  and  bow 
Was  toddling  round  and  shooting  bees, 
His  father  fond  his  skill  to  show, 
And  try  the  Spanish  chief  to  please. 


The  Tale  of  Tawah         105 


A  sullen  Spanish  rogue,  a  don, 
Seized  shaft  and  bow  in  fiendish  fun, 
And  struck  the  babe  a  blow  when  he 
To  ask  for  captured  toy  made  free. 

The  chief  a  moment  stood  struck  dumb ; 
Rose  'mong  the  braves  an  angry  hum. 
Tawah  the  peace-man  changed ;  his  face 
Grew  drawn  and  set,  his  muscled  arm 
Appeared  like  oak  entwined  with  vines. 
The  don  stepped  back  in  mute  alarm, 
But  quicker  still  Tawah  sprang  forth 
As  lightning  leaps  from  startled  north. 

He  seized  the  don  with  arms  that  time 
Of  constant  toil  in  hardening  clime 
Had  forged  to  consistency  of  steel 
And  hurled  him  o'er  the  river  bank. 
A  time  they  stood  and  knew  not  how  to  feel. 
A  quick  command  from  one  in  rank, 
The  fight  began.     *T  was  one  to  four, 
But  the  natives  fought  as  ne'er  before, 

But  give  not  a  shout  or  sound ; 
They  tread  the  ground  with  winged  bound, 
They  seem  the  space  with  men  to  fill, 
But  then  they  die  as  well  as  kill. 


io6         The  Tale  of  Tawah 


The  chief  in  conflict  closed  with  two, 
When  through  he  saw  an  awful  view, — 
His  men  all  killed,  his  town  on  fire, 
With  naught  but  dead  to  greet  their  sire. 

Ah,  worse  than  all  in  wild  dismay, 
He  found  by  careful,  close  survey 
The  feebler  ones  had  captured  been, 
When  foe  the  braves  all  dead  had  seen ! 
The  brave  old  chief,  o'ercome  with  grief, 
In  vain  by  calls  Suava  sought ; 
That  she  was  gone  he  'd  scarce  believe, 
For  grief  e'er  slow  by  mind  is  caught. 

Tawah  now  followed  far  and  fast 

Along  the  coast  where  the  Spaniards  sailed ; 

But  on  the  camps  some  days  had  passed 

When  he  arrived.      His  heart  ne'er  failed, 

His  heart  but  Suava  sung,  his  eyes 

But  Suava  sought,  on  every  rise 

Of  ground  his  sight  in  eager  light 

For  signs  of  loved  led  in  unwilling  flight. 

And  tired  in  everything  but  love 
And  hate,  two  mightiest  forces  they ; 
Under  the  eagle  or  the  dove 
Do  all  men  stand,  to  save  or  slay. 


The  Tale  of  Tawah         107 


And  here  a  mutual  goal  in  view 
When  body  lost  revenge  but  grew. 
God  gives  His  help  and  strength  to  fight 
To  suffering  ones  who  're  in  the  right. 

Till  last  one  night  the  camp  he  sees; 

From    camp   the  light  shines  through   the 

trees, 

Outlines  all  objects  round  the  tents, 
And  through  the  natural  forest-rents 
He  saw  the  figures  of  the  men, 
And  thought  he  saw  a  darker  skin. 
Tawah  his  son  was  either  slain 
Or  by  adoption  saved,   this  thought  gave 

pain. 

Then  of  a  sudden  came  a  shout, 
Some  one  in  scouting  from  camp  gone  out 
Had  seen  Tawah !     Quickly  he  gained 
Suava's  side,  where  blows  he  rained 
On  ever  growing  foe.     Then  came 
Command  to  "Fire,"  a  burst  of  flame, 
A  cloud  of  smoke,  the  deed  was  done. 
Too  many  such  victories  were  won ! 


AN  INDIAN  SAGA  OF  THE  MOUND- 
BUILDERS 

A  T  council's  fires  from  learned  sires 
**     As  old  as  yonder  oak, 
In  school  of  age  well  titled  sage, 
I  heard  of  whom  you  spoke. 

From  cold  northwest  'fore  earth  was  blest 
With  beasts  or  flowers  or  trees, 

From  dark  confines  where  he  ne'er  shines, 
Came  the  Sun-god's  enemies. 

And  Manitou  turned  dew  to  snow 

To  entice  the  strangers  on. 
Thus  made  the  cold  clime  called  winter-time 

The  night  without  a  dawn. 

Deceived  by  same,  they  onward  came 

To  Delaware's  domains. 
The  sun  then  shone  from  golden  throne, 

The  snow  gave  place  to  rains. 
108 


An  Indian  Saga  109 

This  sudden  change  to  them  so  strange 

Brought  suffering  and  dismay. 
They  shelter  made  within  the  shade 

Of  cliffs  without  delay. 

There  temples  reared  rough-hewn  and  tiered 

With  highest  cultured  art, 
For  Mars  their  god  with  science  shod 

To  advancement  gave  the  start. 

Of  mighty  Sun  Mars  was  a  son, 

They  parted  at  his  birth, 
And  now  opposed  by  fates  proposed 

For  people  on  the  earth. 

But  father's  right  combined  with  might 

O'ercame  the  truant  son. 
Despite  their  cry  were  doomed  to  die 

These  people  of  the  cliff  and  dune. 

The  strangers  sought  and  wearily  wrought 

To  gain  their  god's  relief. 
The  altared  mounds  so  often  found 

Were  part  of  their  belief. 

The  snake-shaped  wreath  within  whose  teeth 

The  Eden  apple  lies. 
By  sign  of  sin  self-conscious  in 

Was  soul-felt  sacrifice. 


no  An  Indian  Saga 

To  no  avail  their  plea  and  wail, 

They  vanished  one  by  one. 
This  was  the  tale  the  Indian  told 

Who  worshipped  god  the  Sun. 

Some  rumors  claim  these  strangers  came 
From  Asia's  sun-warmed  clime; 

'T  is  prejudice  that  moveth  us 
In  translating  every  rhyme. 

Perhaps  't  was  wrong  and  but  a  song 

Of  mistradition  made, 
But  rocks  remain  and  publish  plain 

Accounts  that  do  not  fade : 

Those  pious  piles  uncrossed  by  smiles 

To  answer  History's  glance, 
A  monastery  of  chastity 

Against  impure  advance. 

The  bones  that  bear  with  jealous  care 

With  ice-bound  mastodon 
Pictures  of  past.     Ah,  hold  them  fast 

And  pure,  sage  skeleton ! 

Naught  moves  our  minds  nor  interest  finds 

As  mark  of  mystery. 
Grown  dumb  with  age,  like  Thracian  sage, 

Still  think,  though  silently. 


An  Indian  Saga  in 

My  soul  take  heed,  from  sin-stains  freed, 

With  quiet  dignity 
Oppose  the  coarse  and  worldly  force, 

And  quiet,  stately  be. 

May  sin  be  lost  as  morning  frost 

Beneath  a  passer's  feet, 
As  thoughtfully  I  go  passing  by 

Through  life's  short,  winding  street. 

As  time  hath  swept  and  no  type  kept 

'Neath  slow,  deliberate  pace, 
The  life  and  lore  that  are  no  more, 

Leave  silent,  restful  peace. 

Depose  the  noise  that  mars  thy  poise, 

The  troubled  tide  so  strong. 
Life  simple,  sweet,  is  far  more  meet 

As  well  as  doubly  strong. 


ALIENI   TEMPORIS   FLORES 
(FLOWERS  OF  PAST  TIME) 

ARGUMENT 

'"THE  sweet  soothsayers  that  breathe  out 

legendary  lore, 
Those   legends   whose   untruth   but   makes 

them  loved  the  more, 

Cannot  in  volume  all  complete  count  history 
Of  meanings  given  their  names.     Still  may 

not  we  be  free 
To    reason   and  in   our   ensimpled   manner 

guess 
The  parentage  of  superstitious  songs?    The 

stress 
That  Nature's  charms  lay  on  our  lives  has 

right  to  weave 
The  quaint  traditions  which  our  minds  in 

part  believe, 
For  things  e'er  look  to  us  more  than  their 

visioned  form. 


Alieni  Temporis  Flores     113 

'T  is  ne'er  degrading  or  unseemly  to  trans 
form 
The  scenes  we  see  to  tales  that  entertain  the 

best 
Not  others  but  ourselves.     And  then  those 

meanings  part  in  jest 
When  held  'fore  memory's  lamp  e'er  bright 

reveal  a  stamp 
More  tragic  than  of  mirth.     As  on  glasses 

we  must  wear 
To  aid  our  enfeebled  eyes,  although  we  feel 

they  're  there 
Unusual  motes  are  best  perceived  by  holding 

to  a  light. 
How  oft  we  meet  a  word  from   another's 

lexicon 
Of  life  that  so  resembles  ours  we  're  startled 

quite, 
As  though   our  soul  had  spoken   aloud  its 

long-still  woe ! 
These  mystic  theories  of  an  idle  hour  that 

gave 
To  ancients  their  conception  of  a  God,  fast 

grow 
In  fertile  field  of  thought  and  by  connections 

grave 
Bear  truer  fruit  than  seems  at  first  sight  to 

bestow. 


ii4     Alieni  Temporis  Floras 


i. 


Bent  like  a  willow  that  weighing  snow 
Of  many  years  hath  curved,  or  the  blade 
Of  Time's  famed  scythe  as  the  artists  show, 
Like  the  drooping  flowers  that  'gin  to  fade, 
With  white  silken  hair  that  seeks  to  hide 
The  forehead   creased   with  care;   but  the 

tide 

Of  sorrow  could  not  efface 
The  smile  that  sweetens  the  kindly  face ; 
At  the  window  grandpa  musing  sat. 
I  followed  his  gaze  across  the  flat 
To     the     sloping     steep     our     churchyard 

crowned, 

To  the  fartherest  corner,  where  I  knew 
Was  a  well-attended  mossy  mound, 
Where  grandma  lies,  his  heart  lies  too. 
I  heard  him  softly  sigh  and  two  tears 
Were  trembling  held  by  his  lashes  long, 
When  a  step  that  told  of  youthful  years 
Was  heard  and  a  face  like  a  joyous  song 
Peeped  in  at  the  open  door.     "Come,  dear," 
And  sister  Helen  came  running  in, 
And  grandpa's  smile  soon  chased  the  tear. 
Her  hair  soft  as  silk  that  spiders  spin 
With  its  satin  pinions  prisoning  stay 
The  golden  gleam  of  a  summer's  day, 


Alien!  Temporis  Flores     115 

And  trying  to  break  from  bondage  sweet, 
In  confusion  her  hair  is  scattered  quite 
In  prettiest  way  though  not  so  neat, 
Embroiders  with  gold  her  fur  coat  white. 
"Here  's  some  flowers  I  picked  for  you," 

she  said, 
"Some   are  yellow,   some  are   pink,   some 

red. ' ' 

He  kissed  her  twice  and  took  the  flowers, 
He  looked  them  o'er  with  a  word  for  each, 
With  words  to   us  given  though  were  not 

ours, 

As  one  who  speaks  to  himself  alone, 
But  usurps  the  gaze  of  those  around, 
Of  that  which  but  interests  him,  but  would 

atone 

By  dissembling  thought  in  dialogue  gowned. 
"Ah,  simple  soothsayers,  well  you  quote 
My  fate  in  a  sad  and  doleful  note. 
But  sighs  in  the  alembic  of  a  hopeful  heart 
Are  gilded  o'er  with  thanks,  depart 
As  a  smile  to  soothe  another's  cross. 
Who  suffers  most  can  pity  more 
Than  those  who  have  known  no  loved  loss. 
Come,    prophetic   blossoms,  what    's   your 

lore? 

My  happiest  days  are  long  since  through? 
Ah,  meadow-saffron,  you  tell  it  true ! 


n6     Alieni  Temporis  Flores 

And  linked  with  the  blue-bells'  constancy 
And  sorrowing  regret  the  dowry 
Of  ash-leaved  trumpet's  loneliness." 

II.      THE  FADED  ROSE 

"The  pretty  petals  all  have  dropped  away, 
But  brown  and  dirty  bud  is  left !  " 
Thus  cries  our  little  Helen,  much  bereft, 

When  favorite  flowers  fade  away. 

"It  seems  as  though  my  flowery  butterfly, 
Afraid  that  he  was  born  too  soon, 
Had  slipped  back  into  his  cocoon." 

Right,  little  one,  he  does  not  fade  to  die. 

Our  lives  are  like  those  roses  too, 
Some  live  as  long  as  wills  the  sun, 
By  chance  some  fade  though  just  begun, 

And  prematurely  tire  of  earthly  view. 

And  older  as  we  grow  our  graces  leave, 
And  leave  us  beautiless  and  sad  ; 
Ah,  blessed  thought,  to  make  me  glad 

'T  is  my  cocoon  that  I  begin  to  weave ! 

And  sorrow's  artificial  heat  will  buy 

But  sooner  graces  glorified, 

To  flit  in  joy  to  Savior's  side. 
Ah,  cheering  truth,  I  do  not  fade  to  die ! 


Alieni  Temporis  Flores     117 

III.      THE  DAISY 

Down  in  a  little  daisy  dell 

Down  beside  the  dusty  road, 
Where  brightest  flower-fairies  dwell 

And  the  seeds  by  pixies  sowed ; 

There  grew  a  daisy  white  and  gold, 
Of  which  this  sweet  story  's  told. 
It  may  be  true  or  may  not  be 
'T  is  just  as  't  was  told  to  me. 

With  many  more  of  daisy-kind 
'T  was  cut  a  church  to  adorn, 

By  tiny  hands  for  good  enshrined, 
A  heavenly  message  borne. 

It  fell  unnoticed  from  the  wreath 

To  the  floor  beside  a  pew. 
Like  drops  of  dew  on  heathery  heath 

That  unseen  the  flowers  renew. 

It  happed  that  eve  there  filled  this  seat 

A  sinner  lonesome  and  sad. 
Here  God  to-night  had  turned  his  feet 

To  His  love  this  lonesome  lad. 


n8     Alieni  Temporis  Flores 

Beneath  his  feet  the  daisy  lay 
All  unconscious  doing  good, 

As  trifling  deeds  if  done  each  day 
Would  extend  to  starving  food. 

A  food  that  faileth  not  to  ease 
The  soul-sick  sinner's  disease; 
Heavy  calls  for  help  when  heeded  aright 
Are  answered  by  efforts  slight. 

Yes,  Daisy  was  his  sister's  name, 

The  sister  so  dear  to  him  ; 
A  living  gospel  giving  grace 

By  life  like  a  lengthened  hymn. 

Where  sister,  son,  and  mother  met 

He  alone  now  silent  sat. 
He  longed  for  rest,  received  that  rest, 

Only  a  daisy  yet  did  that. 

This  sin-weed  scattered  field  of  life 
Makes  it  hard  for  flower  that  grows, 

But  He,  the  Holy  Husbandman, 
Will  protect  the  seed  He  sows. 


ONLY   A  WHITE    ROSE 

""T  IS  just  six  months  since  I  put  a  rose, 

*       Entangled  it  deep  in  tresses  fair, 
Ethiopian  tresses,  where  the  rose 
Shone  like  a  starlet  glimmering  there. 
A  token  of  tryst  so  strong  and  true 
Implanted  in  joy  no  thought  of  rue. 
Inscribed :  "The  White  Rose — sign  of  purest 

love, 
Escutcheon  of  the  white  wood-dove." 

Just  half  that  time  and  I  pinned  a  rose, 
And  knotted  it  strong  in  a  wedlock  wreath, 
Sacred  signet  with  heavenly  light  that  glows, 
Like  a  diamond  set  no  sign  of  grief. 
A  token  of  tryst  so  strong  and  true 
Implanted  in  joy  no  thought  of  rue. 
Inscribed :  "The  White  Rose — sign  of  purest 

love, 
Escutcheon  of  the  white  wood-dove." 

And  now  I  am  putting  the  same  white  rose 
On  a  bosom  that  's  cold  in  marble  mould, 
119 


1 20       Only  A  White  Rose 

Where  it  lies  in  peace  from  life's  sad  throes, 
Like  the  marbled  mound  on  the  graveyard's 

snows. 

A  token  of  tryst  so  strong  and  true 
That  's  welded  more  tightly  by  unlaved  rue. 
Inscribed :  "The  White  Rose — sign  of  purest 

love, 
Escutcheon  of  the  white  wood-dove." 

But 't  is  well — that  the  white  reveals  no  blush ; 
That  the  silence  of  death,  not  shameful  hush, 
Is  answer  to  this  my  heart's  advance ; 
Bereft   by  Death's   not   by   Guilt's   cursed 

lance. 

A  token  of  tryst  so  strong  and  true, 
That  beareth  no  blot  on  its  tincture  true, 
Inscribed :  "The  White  Rose — sign  of  purest 

love, 
Escutcheon  of  the  white  wood-dove." 


A  SONG  OF  THE   SOUTH 

PHE  birds  and  bees  had  ceased  their  song, 

Afraid  of  shadows  drear  and  long. 
Upon  a  bench  near  a  cabin's  door 
A  group  of  colored  children  sit ; 
But  now  they  noisily  play  no  more, 
Wait  till  the  cabin's  candle  's  lit. 
The  quiet  of  the  hour  seems 
To  lead  to  far  more  sober  dreams. 
Each  simple  mind  is  rilled  with  thought 
The  same  as  we  in  youth  oft  caught, 
Of  golden  riches,  joy  untold, 
That  farther  flee  as  years  unfold. 
The  light  is  lit,  then  comes  a  call 
From  mammy  dear,  then  scramble  all, 
With  "Har  me  is,"  or  "Har  comes  me." 
They  're  in  the  house  'fore  you  count  three. 
Around  the  crude  old  cabin  sit, 
Their  faces  beam  by  firelight  lit, 
Attentive  wait.     There  's  grandpa  old, 
Whose  hair  is  like  the  winter's  snow. 
The  times  of  slavery  by  him  told 


122       A  Song  of  the  South 

Have  left  the  marks  of  weighty  woe. 

And  now  he  leads  the  evening  prayer, 

The  simple  service  far  more  fair 

To  glance  of  God  than  learned  law 

And  conned  by  clergy  wise. 

They  try  not  in  their  faith  to  find  a  flaw, 

But  laden  with  lowly  love  prayers  rise 

Carried  along  by  simple  song : 

"Listen,  Lord,  our  evening  prayer,    , 

Sing  it  loud  in  Heaben,  Lord, 

Sing  it  for  our  sister  's  dere, 

On  dat  shore  we  're  sailing  toward. 

"When  it  's  dark  and  quiet-like, 
When  the  birds  have  gone  to  bed, 

And  the  solemn  thoughts  us  strike, 
Listen  while  our  prayer  is  said." 

The  conscience  clear  and  humble  heart 
Bring  blessings  to  their  sleep, — a  sleep 
That  can't  be  earned  by  other  art. 
Lord,  teach  me  simple  love  to  Thee, 
That  I  more  like  this  folk  may  be ! 
The  deeper  down  in  theory  tied, 
The  more  absorbed  and  moved  our  mind, 
Sometimes  these  things  will  love  elide. 


THE   CHARM   OF  THE   BROOK 

A  LONG  the  bending,  bubbling  brook, 
**     Soft  whisp'ring  to  attentive  reeds 
That  lean,  half-grasping  mossy  nook, 
To  list  the  madrigal  it  pleads ; 

That  gurgling  'neath  the  feeble  bridge, 
From  which  impends  a  weeded  knot 

That  like  cedilla  softens  tone, 

It  hums  a  hymn  not  light  forgot ; 

Or  searching  for  that  wished-for  fern 
A  saucy  frog  upholds  his  head, 

In  studied  hauteur  tries  to  learn 
The  one  by  profanation  led ; 

That  seems  to  chuckle  as  we  ask 

Each  other  genus  of  a  frond. 
And  there  to  aid  the  stream  in  task 

Some  lad  had  built  a  bank-walled  pond ; 

We  draw  from  this  minute  lagoon 
A  cup  that  Hebe  would  have  held 
123 


124   The  Charm  of  the  Brook 


In  triumph  to  her  lord,  but  tune 
A  half-felt  doubt  of  charm  it  held. 

Weave  on,  thou  silver  thread  in  life, 

That  tinged  with  sorrow  mourns  for  years 

Long  past,  a  happier  lace  o'er  mask 
Of  cynic  mail,  no  proof  'gainst  tears. 

And  on  the  beauty  blush  possessed 
Where  Nature's  fairies  have  caressed 
My  soul  steals  kisses  in  sweet  joy. 
A  Lethe  thou  art  without  alloy ! 


DYING   DANNIE 

A    STORM  had  swept  o'er  Shrewsbury's 
^^     shore 

For  many  a  weary  day, 
The  white-capped  waves  in  anger  tore 

As  they  came  from  down  the  bay. 

A  small,  neat  sloop  at  anchor  rode, 
And  bravely  she  fought  the  gale ; 

The  waves  dashed  o'er  her  streaming  deck, 
And  the  ropes  in  wind  did  wail. 

A  fisher's  humble  home  this  boat, 

With  his  wife  and  baby  boy. 
'Mong  storms  they  lived,   at  storms  they 
laughed, — 

A  storm  is  the  sailor's  joy. 

But  Dannie  's  sick  to-night,  and  they 

A  full  mile  from  Sandy  Hook. 
To  reach  the  shore,  the  only  way, 

Since  their  skiff  the  wild  waves  took, 
125 


i26  Dying  Dannie 

Was  but  to  swim  through  whirlpools  wild, — 

But  the  doctor  must  be  called ; 
The  fisher  watched  his  dying  child, 

More  by  grief  than  storm  appalled. 

His  weeping  wife  watched  stern-set  face, 
With  a  fear  she  dared  not  show. 

He  turned, — his  tight-shut  lips,  grave  face, 
Told  't  was  vain  to  murmur  "No." 

"I  'm  going,  dear;  't  is  a  fearful  fight, 

But  the  Dannie  lad  will  die." 
She  seized  his  arm,  with  strength  of  fright 

At  the  storm  and  death  so  nigh. 

He  kissed  her  twice;  she  bade  him  stay, 
For  't  was  death  to  swim  that  sea; 

In  voice  with  love  grown  soft  he  said, 
"But  he  '11  die,  our  baby  wee." 

And  in  the  sea  he  found  his  fears 
Were  but  naught  beside  the  real ; 

He  saw  in  thought  the  wife  in  tears, 
And  the  thought  gave  strength  of  steel. 

But  soon  so  tired,  how  sweet  to  rest, 
And  his  arms  gave  up  their  task 

And  sought  his  weak  and  bruised  breast, 
And  the  waves  his  form  soon  mask. 


Dying  Dannie  127 

But  sudden  starts  the  sleeping  form, 
The  waves  he  heard  them  sighing, 

"Poor  man,  he  's  conquered  by  the  storm, 
And  Dannie  lad  is  dying!  " 

No  sleeping  now,  but  all  alert, 

And  the  waves  he  flings  aside; 
What  though  they  bruise  and  hurt, 

The  race  is  against  Death's  tide! 

The  watching  life-men  on  the  shore 
Noticed  something  floating  near, 

And  from  the  greedy  gulf  him  bore, 
So  far  gone  for  life  they  fear. 

Then  ready  hands  assistance  gave 
And  his  tale  to  them  soon  told ; 

A  boat  and  crew  they  need  not  crave, 
For  they  offer,  young  and  old. 

The  doctor  saved  the  Dannie  lad, 

But  he  got  there  just  in  time; 
An  hour  more  and  far  more  sad 

Indeed  would  have  been  my  rhyme. 

In  after  years  the  tale  oft  told, 

The  father  ever  would  say : 
"The  labor  done  for  love  is  light," 

We  all  think  that  every  day. 


THE   ATLANTIC 

"THOU  remnant  of  that  universal  sea 

Which  cloaked  the  world  before  our 

history, 
At  thy  great  power  what  tides  of  thought 

awake, 
The  mind  of  man  its  smallness  learn  you 

make. 

Thank  thee  for  times  in  sweet  security 
You  've  borne  my  bark  across  your  bosom 

broad, 

When  danger  held  not  the  dread  of  maturity, 
In  youth  when  nothing  feared  and  nothing 
awed. 

But  now  I  owe  thee  something  more,  for 

gifts 
No  price  but  love  can  buy.     As  Nature 

found 
No  such  safe  storehouse  as  thy   bed   and 

drifts— 

For  study  there  is  mystery  in  each  mound. 
128 


The  Atlantic  129 


There  's  planning  polyp  that  martyred  makes 

the  land, 

A  tiny  cell  with  scarce  an  organ  known, 
That,  leagued  with  millions  of  its  kind,  and 

sand, 

Accomplish    well    what    can't    be    done 
alone. 

The  polyp  a  lesson  preaches  us, — that  power 

Is  unity.     Each  one  his  part  and  all 
Can  do  what  seems  to  one  like  clouds  that 

lower 

Before  the  summer  storm's  dread  strength 
doth  fall. 

Beneath  thy  roaring  tide  't  is  fairy-land, 
Where  water-waving  groves  hold  flowers 

and  trees, 

Each  one  like  stone-turned  rainbow  band, 
That  flashes  in  brightest  hues  in  watery 
breeze. 

And  mountains  grim  guard  vales  in  deepest 

night 
Where  strangest  beasts  in  safe  seclusion 

swim, 

For  study  rich  but  never  brought  to  light, 
Not  e'en  for  Science's  all-winning  whim. 


130  The  Atlantic 


So  strong  and  yet  so  kind,  you  smiling  stand 
The  seaming  scars  that  ships  by  thousands 

leave ; 
Sometimes  a  frown,  but  moods  move  sea  and 

land, 

Sometimes  in  joy,  sometimes  so  sad  we 
breathe. 

You    guard   your   treasure   well  as  Nature 

knew, 
But  man  is  bent  to  find  the  "how"  and 

"why." 

Old  ocean,  I  have  spent  my  life  with  you, 
And  wish  a  grave  in  your  green  groves 
when  I  die. 


SHAKESPEARE 

WEET  scion  of  the  showy  stage, 

Whose  mellow  music  holds  a  theme 
Beyond  its  merely  sensual  page, 
That  bids  us  think  as  well  as  dream. 

In  common  course  of  human  code 

Philosophers  make  poets  poor, 
For  motives  muffed  to  fashion's  mode 

Though  pageant  proud  cannot  allure. 

But  thou  hast  moulded  in  each  man 

A  concrete  motive  or  a  theme, 
But  as  we  carefully,  closely  scan, 

With  well-known  individuals  teem. 

You  knew  each  human  nature's  bent, 
And  yet  bequeathed  not  of  your  own. 

Why  are  your  works  so  reticent, 

And  personal  traits  so  seldom  shown? 

Your  persona]  puppet  was  each  word 

The  English  tongue  can  boast,  but  heard 
131 


i32  Shakespeare 

Conceit  with  an  indifferent  air, 
And  self  received  not  usual  human  care. 

The  borrowed  plots  can  cast  no  taint, 
As  many  minds  have  stooped  to  try ; 

The  bee  that 'steals  the  flowers'  paint 
But  borrows  to  improve  its  dye. 


HIDDEN   SORROW 

T  ONCE  was  strolling  near  a  stream 

Whose  usual  mood  was  crystal  clear, 
And  much  surprised  that  silvery  gleam 
Was  mantled  with  a  muddy  blear : 

I  sought  the  cause  of  saddening  force, 
And,  near  the  cradle  of  its  birth, 

Where  through  the  elms  it  earns  its  course 
With  tribute  to  the  thirsty  earth, 

A  wind-wrenched  bough  was  part  submerged 
And  yet,  half-hung,  swayed  by  the  wind, 

Stirred  up  the  silt.     The  stream  emerged 
With  tainted  tide  and  pride  inclined. 

Years  since  I  sought  that  rivulet, 

The  tree  was   gone,  the  stream   seemed 

pure, 

But  on  the  bed  the  sullage  set 
A  shade  that  ever  will  endure. 
133 


134  Hidden  Sorrow 


The  pure  white  pebbles  now  were  brown, 
Like  white  rosebuds  'neath  calyx  screen, 

But  still  as  I  stood  gazing  down, 

So  changed,  I  think  what  they  have  been. 

I  trembling  start  in  sad  surprise ; 
What  mirrored  image  meets  my  eyes? 
Have  I  too  changed  in  such  a  way 
Since  I  was  here  in  former  day? 

I  took  a  stick  and  stirred  the  bed, 
Again  the  stream  was  sullied  slow; 

'T  was  only  sleeping  and  not  dead, 
That  taint  received  so  long  ago. 

In  joyous,  unshadowed  sky  of  youth 
Sometimes  a  foreign  force  will  mar, 

Will  stir  a  storm  that  muffs  the  moon 
And  ostracizes  every  star. 

The  storm  abates  to  thoughtless  eyes, 
The  soul  seems  full  of  happiness, 

But  yet  down  deep  there  latent  lies 
That  bitter  tinge  of  undying  stress ; 

And  features  seen  by  loving  friends 

Are    marked    with    something    nameless 
quite ; 


Hidden  Sorrow  135 


The  smile  has  sweeter  grown,  but  tends 
To  dwell  beyond  our  earthly  sight. 

It  needs  but  one  word,  heedless  said, 
To  quicken  memories  thought  as  dead, 
To  stir  once  more  the  gulf  of  grief, 
And  life  's  a  maelstrom,  rock,  and  reef. 

The  snows,  the  joys  that  cheer  the  creek, 
Are  met  with  eager,  happy  eye ; 

When  source  is  gone,  go  vainly  seek, 
For  snows  like  joys  must  ever  die. 

And  though  they  swell  the  surface  tide, 
In  fulness  tend  the  bed  to  hide, 
Unmoved,  unameliorated  woe 
Oft  takes  this  chance  to  steadily  grow. 

And  sorrow's  sullage,  though  it  makes 
A  soul  more  sweet  when  casually  read, 

Tries  hard  to  mantle  hearts  that  ache, 
Lest  rueful  word  should  contagion  spread. 


A  PAINTING  BY  A  FRIEND 

A   SCENE  with  smiling  on  its  face, 
*^     Two  gifts  of  God's  all-tender  Grace 
The  man-made  but  enhallowed  shrine, 
And  Nature,  ours,  but  ever  Thine. 

All  clothed  with  satin  robe  of  white 
That  Nature  drew  in  dark  of  night, 
An  holy  altar-cloth,  and  spread  ;  : 
To  teach  us  softened,  thoughtful  tread. 

The  Sabbath  stillness  reigns  supreme 
As  in  some  sweet  and  happy  dream, 
And  seems  its  quiet  to  diffuse 
Upon  my  soul  as  I  look  and  muse. 

The  fane,  one  of  those  precious  few 
To  old  world  give  sublimity, 

But  slight,  for  ceded  faith,  the  new, 
That  scorned  restraint  for  liberty. 

The  evergreens  form  background  meet, 
Now  spangled  with  a  thousand  gems 
136 


A  Painting  by  a  Friend      137 

Enhancing  simple  dignity 
Of  church  that  proud  display  condemns. 

A  far  more  suited  ornament 

To  show  the  people's  worshipping  will, 
To  faith  a  better  monument 

Than  gilded  pane  and  marbled  sill. 


SIMPLE   WORSHIP 

T  NEED  no  grand  enmarbled  shrines 

Where  eyes  are  sovereign  to  the  soul, 
Whose  grandeur  in  our  prayer  entwines, 
And  form  must  fashion  pious  role. 

But  God's  best  altar  's  in  the  wood, 
All  service  there  is  true  and  good. 
I  well  remember  service  there, 
An  hour  in  sweet  informal  prayer. 

The  worshippers  attentive  seem, 
The  scene  is  silenced  at  their  wish, 

As  floating  leaf  lingers  in  stream 

Held  steady  by  nipping,  leaping  fish. 

So  every  noise  abeyance  felt, 
While  all  creation  thoughtfully  knelt, 
This  worship  reigned  a  moment  long 
And  then  the  choir  raised  heartfelt  song. 

With  baton  no  director  metes, 
The  tune  was  timed  by  glad  heart-beats ; 
138 


Simple  Worship  139 

The  part  each  took  not  voice  decreed, 
Nor  any  written  staff  they  need ; 

The  scales  have  fallen  from  their  eyes, 
The  rod  and  staff  that  leadeth  them 

Are  sent  from  Him  within  the  skies; 

Not  that  we  would  these  things  condemn, 

But  when  the  very  soul  and  heart 
Are  dressed  to  fashion's  robes  and  gowns 

'T  is  time  that  world  and  I  should  part 
To  pious  woods  from  'sembling  towns. 


AT  TWILIGHT 

D  ALANCED  day  and  evening  now  they 

*-^     swing, 

Twilight  shadows  around  me  cling, 

Melodious  memories  softly  bring, 

And  to  my  resting  spirit  sweetly  sing. 

Loath  to  leave  her  fading  field  seems  day, 
Strives  still,  and  for  an  instant  seems  to  stay 
Drear  Darkness*  approaching  fated  sway, 
But  Nature  rules  and  Nature  has  her  way. 

Thus  memory,  lingering,  held  by  sadness 

E'er  regrets  our  souls  to  leave, 
Till  the  Lord  in  all  His  goodness 

Helps  our  heavy  hearts  not  grieve. 


140 


THE  AMCEBA 

'"THOU  tiniest  taste  of  Nature's  scheme, 

Tell  us  the  secret  of  Life's  dream 
As  you  know  it,  who  unseen, 
Except  by  those  with  man-made,  eyes, 
Live  on  while  centuries  pass  between, 
While  man  but  moment  lives  then  dies. 
With  scarce  one  organ  thou  art  made, 
Yet,  used  in  praises  justly  paid 
To  Him  who  made  both  you  and  me; 
Live  on  in  silent,  sweet  content. 
With  what  a  thoughtful  memory 
Has  Nature  all  in  wisdom  sent! 
Can  it  be  that  thou,  so  simple,  small, 
Art  forefather  of  animals  all ; 
The  Poi-de-Stoi  on  which  there  rests 
The  solution  of  Darwin's  thought, 
Changed  with  countless  centuries'  tests 
In  other  forms  thy  comfort  sought? 


141 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL 

,  daylight-exiled  bird,  what  hast  thou 
done, 

That  thou  art  so  afraid  of  the  sun? 
Are  rumors  of  thine  occult  powers  true? 
When  evening  hides  from  curious  view, 
All  muffed  in  brown  cabalistic  coat 

And  drawing  burly  head  down  close, 
Straining  with   mournful  -  meaning   charms 

your  throat, 
Art  then  invoking  vengeful  woes? 

I  creep  close  to  your  low-built  home, 
Where  you  in  study  spend  the  day, 

Awaiting  dark  to  spell  the  starry  dome, 
And  see  you  stand  within  the  ray 

Of  light  the  moon  steals  through  the  trees  to 
look ; 

Inspired  with  theme,  you  surely  look 

Far  larger  than  you  are,  and  musing  sit; 

My  presence  speech  will  not  permit. 
142 


The  Whip-Poor- Will       143 

And  then  as,  scorning  ignorant  company, 

He  fleetly  flies  away  from  me, 

The  "Mariner's  Spectre   Ship"    made   far 

more  sound, 

Then  sepulchral  quiet  steals  around, 
Commanding  e'en  the  leaves  their  fluttering 

cease ; 

Then  from  some  distant  shadowy  trees 
I  hear  the  mournful  cadence  once  again ; 
I  scarce  can  blame  the  superstitious  men. 


THE  HILLS  OF  CLIFTON,  ENGLAND 

A  BOVE  the  Avon's  fickle  tide, 
•*     Where  at  noon  mighty  vessels  ride, 
At  eve  aught  but  a  play -yacht  's  barred, 
So  vast  its  change.     It  hurries  out, 
Then  back  it  flows  as  if  to  guard 
'Gainst  time,  this  wrought  about 

By  freshening  every  day 

So  age  its  stream  can't  stay. 

Above  this  restless  river's  bank, 
Towering  sublime  on  either  flank, 
In  contrast  to  the  changing  stream 
Stands  still  the  same  that  centuries  saw, 
Of  which  e'en  science  may  but  dream, 
The  hill  of  classic  Clifton's  tales. 

They  scoff  at  Time  nor  deign 

By  refreshment  to  gain. 

Grand  gates  that  guard  this  busy  brook, 
Following  it  through  pretty  bend  and  crook ; 
The  green  of  foliage  on  the  hill 
Meets  green  from  river  just  below. 
144 


The  Hills  of  Clifton,  England    145 

The  trees  the  stream  with  shadows  fill 
'Cept  where  the  sun  steals  through  to  glow. 

The  hills  with  trees  and  flowers 

Make  perfect  fairy-bowers. 

These,  too,  are  books  with  memories  deep 
That  from  a  hundred  centuries'  sleep 
Now  willing  wake  for  us  to  read, 
The  tales  of  life  in  ages  old, 
And  waiting  minds  to  wisdom  lead. 
Think,  Solomon  knew  what  ants  retold ; 
We  take  a  bit  of  stone, 
Tell  when  and  how  't  was  sown. 

Crayon  is  from  chalk  often  made 
And  Clifton's  hills  in  chalk  conveyed 
To  man  a  view  that  artists  shun, 
And  ere  their  work  is  half  begun 
These  hills  invade  for  pigments  old, 
That  pictures  of  the  past  unfold. 


ECCLESIASTES  XI.,  i. 

crumbs  upon  the  sea,  they  '11  swim 
to  shore  for  thee, 
A  penny  spent  will  bring  reward  fit  for  a 

king. 
What  though  some  sink,  the  greater  part  will 

blessings  be, 

The  crumbs  that  sink  in  sweeping  'long 
the  bed  take  time. 

A  book  in  path  of  brother  bound  for  darkest 

doom, 

With  word  of  hope  might  move  in  mem 
ory's  mind 
Of  time  when  grace  lit  life  that  now  is  naught 

but  gloom, 

And  there  a  fertile  field  for  growing  gos 
pel  find. 


146 


THE   PHYSICIAN 

\17HO  toils  so  much  for  others'  pains, 
^  *       Braves  all  wild  winds  and  raging  rains, 
To  lighten  some  poor  suffering  soul, 
And  mind  and  body's  cross  condole? 

Who  stands  beside  that  death-wrapped  bed 
With  moistened  eyes  but  stern-set  lips, 

Supports  in  hands  his  listening  head, 
To  watch  each  breath  from  pallid  lips? 

And  then  when  death  at  last  comes  nigh, 
And  poor  sick  sinner  fears  to  die, 
Who  points  to  Him  who  comforts  all, 
And  takes  away  thoughts  that  appall? 

'T  is  he  whom  God  commission  gave 
His  children's  burning  brow  to  lave, 
And  last  when  heavenly  power  prevails 
Lead  them  to  Him  who  never  fails. 


147 


ON   THE   RIVER 

A  LONE,  alone,  I  'm  all  alone, 
**•     And  many,  many  miles  from  home. 
My  shell  scarce  swims  a  finger's  length 
In     the    sluggish     stream     whose     utmost 

strength 

Seems  spent  to  make  the  silence  stronger, 
And,  too,  the  way  from  home  the  longer. 
In  mind  the  scene  will  long  abide : 
Tall  trees  make  fringe  on  either  side, 
The  stream  with  bubbling  bend  conspires 
With  trebled  trees  in  waving  spires 
To  close  me  in  a  copse  so  fair 
Not  oft  the  landscape-fairies  spare. 
But  now,  when  't  is  in  sleep  so  still 
The  breeze  scarce  shakes  the  stubborn  trees, 
There  's  naught   disturbs  sweet  memory's 

will. 

The  time  is  that  when  thought  best  moves, 
As  conquered  day  her  force  removes ; 
Softly  sinks  the  golden  sun  to  rest 
Behind  yon  forest's  leafy  crest, 
148 


On  the  River  149 


Slowly  retreats  like  a  stag  at  bay, 
Loath  to  leave  the  fast-departing  day. 

Now  the  glory  fades  from  us  away. 

It  is  twilight  and  darkening  falls 

The  summer  night.     Fast  across 

The  vistas  wavering  shadows  glide 

To  the  waiting  darksome  walls, 

Where  the  trembling  water  seeks  to  hide. 

There  comes  a  sadness  over  me 

That  soothes  as  well  as  pains. 

Methinks  in  the  tiny  waves  I  see 

A  picture,  so  sweet  my  gaze  it  gains, 

Smiling  up  at  me,  oh,  so  wistful ! 

The  lips  move !     I  bend  to  catch  the  sound, 

The  word  of  comfort  and  of  love 

That  I  was  wont  to  hear;  around 

The  shadows  start  to  disappear; 

Fainter  grows  the  image  dear. 

"Mother,  mother,"  I  lean  and  call, 

But  o'er  Luna  the  cutains  fall, 

The  darkness  comes,  and  I  'm  alone. 

Sadly  I  turn  away,  a  groan 

Ill-suppressed  upon  my  lips 

And  soft  a  whisper  slips, — 

"Absent,  and  yet  in  love  how  near! " 


A  WINDY   DAY 

WEET,  brush  those  truant  tresses  'way 
That  fall  like  graceful  night  soft  down, 
To  hide  the  eyes  of  brown,  where  day 
Is  glancing  forth  in  sunbeam  gown. 

Their  own  lash,  modest  mantle,  shades 
Enough,  'neath  which  the  beams  retreat 

And  all  the  light  demurely  fades 

Into   a   dreamy   thought   so   chaste    and 
sweet. 

Or  is  the  wind  trying  to  drape 
With  your  silky  raven  locks  as  crape, 
For  laughter  that  died  from  your  eyes 
At  what  you  knew  e'er  words  apprise? 

I  '11  brush  those  truant  tresses  'way, 
'T  is  time  for  mourning  not  this  day ; 
The  eyes  I  know  burn  quite  as  bright, 
Not  laughter,  but  with  true  love  light. 


150 


OUR  MARTYRED  STATESMAN 

'T'HOU  too,  so  strong,  so  good,  so  great, 

Must  feel  assassin's  cursed  power. 
We  sing  with  feeling  songs  of  state, 

"Land  of  the  noble  free,"  whose  tower 
Of  strength  is  freedom  borne, — too  free 

So  deep  in  seeming  safety  grown, 
Our  eyes  are  blind,  we  cannot  see 

The  murderers  e'en  around  our  throne. 

For  one  like  thee  death  comes  not  hard, 

But  such  an  end  we  mourn  far  more 
Than  death  in  battle  sung  by  bard, 

Assassination  shames  e'en  war! 
Around  thy  tomb  are  tearfully  laid 

The   wreaths   the   world   hath  joined   to 

weave, 
But  thou  hast  crowns  that  cannot  fade, 

And  earth's  for  brighter  laurels  you  leave. 

The  world  is  sad,  the  world  is  sad, 
To  think  it  holds  such  creatures  bad, 
151 


i52    Our  Martyred  Statesman 

Who  Moloch-like  do  murder  make 
For  murder's  sake.     But  not  alone 

We  weep,  our  sympathies  awake 
To  hear  a  mourning  woman's  moan, 

In  vain  she  watching  waits  for  him 

Through  eyes  that  touched  with  tears  are 
dim. 

The  mighty  oceans  ceaseless  roll, 

And  caduke  cliffs  are  crushed  to  dust, 
That  carried  by  the  tide  is  dropped 

And    tied    by    Time    forms   new   earth- 
crust. 
Thus  rock  destroyed  returns  to  rock. 

So  Nature  e'er  transitions  try, 
E'en  shifts  the  seeming  staple  stock; 

Why  wonder,  then,  that  we  must  die? 

From  silt  of  streams  by  centuries'  cement 
closed 

Come  learned  lessons  of  the  past. 
So  when  your  past  is  left  exposed 

Ideals  of  character  are  cast, 
To  lift  the  world  from  sinful  sand 
A  step,  a  stride,  to  stronger  stand. 
Such  men  are  given  of  God 
That  we  might  walk  where  they  have  trod. 


Our  Martyred  Statesman    153 

The  world  rolls  on  and  seasons  slip, 
And  ne'er  caesura  take;  there  seems 

To  be  a  something  lost,  our  lip 

Can't  form  the  pathos  felt.     But  beams 

Of  light  and  truth  are  guiding  shed 
To  make  a  model  manhood  plain. 

Rest  thee,  with  all  our  martyred  dead, 
With  Lincoln,  Garfield,  and  the  Maine. 


LORD,  GIVE  US  CHEER 

"T1  IS  dark  and  drear  and  sad  to-night, 

Lord,  linger  near,  make  bright 
When  memories  murmur  in  mine  ear 
Long  past  though  ever  here. 

Teach  of  that  holy  home  on  high, 
So  thoughts  like  these  may  die. 
Give  us  one  glimpse  of  loved  ones  lost 
To  soothe  our  souls  storm-tossed. 

In  sadness  sunk,  teach  us  to  pray 
With  humble,  thankful  heart ; 

Give  thanks  that  things  are  not  far  worse 
To.  bear  Lord,  cheer  impart ! 


154 


A  NATURE   PARADOX 

""THOU    bird-beaked    beast,1    what    canst 

thou  be, 
Where  shouldst  thou  dwell,  on  land  or  sea? 

Could  Nature  make  mistake  like  this, 
So  careful  seldom  makes  a  miss? 

Of  form  both  bird  and  beaver  made, 
But  cannot  fly,  can  only  wade. 

We  have  dull  days  when  senses  sleep, 
Whate'er  we  do  scarce  aught  we  reap. 

Discouraged  Nature  may  have  borne 
Thee  when  she  felt  as  we,  forlorn. 

1  Ornithorhynchus  paradoxus. 


155 


T  IS   PROFITABLE 

\17HY  wander  wearily  along, 

Encumbered  so  with  care? 
But  join  the  e'er-rejoicing  throng, 
Ennumbered  sing  your  share. 

Why  travel  sunk  in  sin,  a  tramp, 
Through  dark  and  endless  night? 

Take  Jesus  as  your  guiding  lamp, 
He  '11  lead  your  feet  aright. 

You  may  become  a  prince  with  God 
While  sin  no  tribute  gives ; 

The  man  of  God  with  peace  is  shod, 
The  sinner  suffering  lives. 


156 


THE   HERMIT-THRUSH 

C  UPERIOR  rival  of  the  nightingale, 
^     Sad  anchorite  of  forest's  gloom, 
But  once  I  've  heard  your   songs  sublime. 
All  fail 

To  weave  in  their  poetic  loom 
A  laurelled  crown  for  your  sublimest  songs, 

But  give  to  him  what  you  belongs. 

Within  the  grand  cathedral  of  the  wood 
When  day   draws   down   her  monk's   gray 

hood 
And  night  becomes,  then  rise  your  evening 

hymns, 

Inspire  to  cast  aside  all  whims 
And   kneel   in   worship  meet.     The    forest 

prays, 
Subdued  by  your  soul-reaching  lays. 

Well  may  you  jealous  be  of  song  you  frame 

And  like  a  great  composer  play 
To  dearest  friends  before  you  give  it  name. 


158        The  Hermit-Thrush 


One  note  like  that  again  I  pray, 
One  moment  wrapped  in  such  soul-stirring 

bliss 
Were  worth  a  lifetime  such  as  this. 


VICTORIA 

'T'HIS  world  is  like  a  book, 
*      And  its  pages  are  its  men ; 
And   the  common  men  make  the   printed 

page, 

And  the  pictured  are  the  famed ; 
And  we  interest  take  in  the  studied  age 
From  the  pictures  that  are  named. 

A  blessed  chapter  this 

That  contains  Victoria's  face ; 
She   held    England's    throne,    but    earth  's 
proud  to  own 

Humble  homage  to  her  mace, 
Which,  as  by  the  custom  royal, 
Was  borne  ahead,  but  by  angels  loyal. 

Her  power  encompassed  the  world, 
And  respect  was  mingled  with  love 

That  was  formed  by  her  mercy  and  grace. 
And  the  world  with  those  above 

As  she  left  her  "well-run  race  " 

Wept  the  tears  so  sweet  and  soft. 


159 


LONGFELLOW 

MY  thought  upon  mind's  sea  lies  motion 
less 

As  model  bark  with  broken  oars  adrift. 
I  fain  would  find  the  words  my  love  can't 

confess, 
My  unconceit  even  for  love  won't  lift. 

All  has  been  far  more  sweetly  said  than  I 
Can  ever  hope  to  say.     I  would  that  mine 

Were  immortal  words,  that  I  in  love  might 

lay 
A  trifling  tribute  to  those  gifts  divine. 

Those  poems  that  perennial  blessings  live, 
Acknowledge  only  one,  one  sweeter  gift, 

And  that  's  your  life,  that  humble  life  of  love 
That,  lived  for  others,  helps  our  labors  lift. 

Beside  your  never-dying  songs  I  '11  lay 
My  words  that  cannot  live  but  for  a  day. 
My  cycle  cast  to  precepts  you  have  taught 
May  reach  result  that  you  in  writing  sought. 
160 


Longfellow  161 

The  love,  respect,  that  's  deep  within  our 

mind 

Cannot  of  words  a  suited  sentence  find ; 
For  thoughts  that  hold  of  heart  the  largest 

part 
Are  those  that  are  not  shared,  that  are  not 

bared. 


THE   FOREST   FIRE 

T  STOOD  at  twilight  on  a  cloud-caressing 

hill 
And  watched  the  Furies  fling  their  forces  up 

the  steep, 

The  woods  with  hell-personifying  horror  fill, 
With  sound  like  thousand   demons  awful, 

loud,  and  deep, 
Broken  sometimes  by  shrill,  heart-rending, 

frightened  cry, 
As  some  poor  furred  or  feathered  victim  fell 

to  die 
A  martyr's  death.     The  kings  unfriendly, 

Frost  and  Fire, 
Have  blended  might  to  further  funeralize 

attire 
Of  earth  in  mourning  muffed  for  Summer's 

much-moaned  death. 
Hath  Vulcan  from  Vesuvius'  failing  forge, 

which  rains 
Of  million  storms  must  have  allayed,  moved 

smelting-shop 

162 


The  Forest  Fire  163 


To  curious  covert  of  our  low  unmounted 

chains 
Of  wood,  that  he  may  case  dear  Nature  base 

to  top 
With    an    impenetrable    suit    of    mail    to 

stand 
The    weight  of    wintry  war?     As    fiendish 

flood  o'erflowed 
And  drowned  the  sister  cities  twain  of  Italy's 

land, 
So  now  on  million  helpless  homes  with  year's 

food  stored 
Sweeps  unremorseless  flame.     Few   escape 

through  galleried  grots, 
Their  homes  by  habit,   safe   from   outside 

wrath,  but  lots 
More  die.     The  setting  sun  with  all  its  glory 

fades 
Before   the   scene   that    in  abeyance   holds 

night's  shades. 

At  last  its  seeming  insatiate  lust  is  all  ap 
peased 
And  slow  withdraws  its  passioned  power. 

The  sun  at  morn 
With  timid  step  ascends  to  throne  on  high, 

angered, 
And   looks   with   misty  eyes  at   woods   of 

beauty  shorn. 


1 64          The  Forest  Fire 


A  blackened  plain  with  here  and  there  sur 
viving  fires, 

That  looks  like  dark  foreboding  sky  on 
stormy  night, 

With  one  or  two  brave-hearted  stars  that 
show  their  fires 

In  calm  defiance  to  the  awful  gale's  fell 
might. 


A   TEXT   FOR   THOUGHT 

\17HY  can't  we  live  to  thought  expressed 
*         In  David's  song,  one-thirty-three: — 
"How  good  for  us  all  brothers  rest 
And  live  in  godly  unity !  " 

Why  not  our  neighbors'  best  parade, 
And  let  their  faults  at  rest  lay  laid? 
Think  of  the  man  relieved  from  debt 
Who  pressed  his  poorer  brother  yet. 

Don't  think  in  this  you  'd  be  alone, 

There  's  always  one  for  smiles  a-search ; 

They  look  to  you  when  you  they  meet 
For  smiles  on  street  as  well  's  in  church. 


165 


THE   CYNIC 

I   AUGH  not  at  cynic's  sneers, 
"•^     He  paid  a  price  for  them, 
For  each  a  hundred  tears. 
His  coldness  don't  condemn; 


'T  is  struggling  soul's  last  stand 

Against  a  sea  of  grief. 
Cried  he  at  its  demand 

Would  drown  without  relief. 

Better  to  face  a  foe 

With  a  defiant  mien 
Than  walk  with  footsteps  slow 

Upon  a  death  unseen ; 

The  cold  and  haughty  head, 

Than  one  bowed  with  its  weight, 

For  guilt  can  hang  a  head, 
It  may  not  be  sorrowed  state. 
166 


The  Cynic  167 

By  snows  the  willow  's  staved, 

By  oak  defiant  braved ; 
Which  adds  to  forest's  grace, 

The  grieved  or  changeless  face? 


SPEAKING 

\X7HAT  joy  in  speaking  ships  at  sea, 

Without,  how  sad  the  voyage  would 

be! 

We  look,  we  yearn  for  speaking  signs 
That  tell  of  friends  in  legible  lines. 

The  smallest  speck  of  smoke  's  a  hope, 
That  broadens  till  a  ship  we  see, 

Or  slipping  streams  like  suds  of  soap 
Their  trail  on  seeming  trackless  sea. 

When  met  the  joyful  greetings  sent 

By  small  dyed  rags  for  a  time  thought  lent, 

But,  too,  a  silent  signal  's  met, 

No  sense  but  feeling  knows  its  set. 

It  soothes  our  homesick  souls,  relieves 
The  scene,  light  blue  above  all  day, 

With  dark  at  night  that  it  receives 
To  match  the  ever  dark-blued  bay. 
168 


Speaking  169 

'T  is  link  that  joins  through  all  mankind, 
That  thought  of  mutual  sympathy ; 

And  travellers  more  that  friendship  find 
With  joy  to  banish  apathy. 


LOUIS  J.   AGASSIZ 

\117HILE  yet  in  childhood's  glory 
^  ^       la  sweet  story  read, 
Of  one  now  lives  in  glory, 

Whose  memory  reigns  instead ; 

How  he  while  yet  a  lad 

His  native  country  left, 
But  while  the  world  was  glad 

His  mother  was  bereft. 

He  left  to  find  the  gifts 
That  Nature  him  unfolds, 

And  he  the  curtains  lifts 

And  fame  and  wisdom  moulds. 

But  not  content  to  keep 
The  knowledge  to  him  lent, 

His  thoughts  the  nations  reap 
In  marvelling  wonderment. 

He  whom  the  world  reveres 
Was  born  in  Pays  de  Vaud ; 
170 


Louis  J.  Agassiz 

There  learned  in  youngest  years 
God's  gifts  not  to  avoid. 

And  growing,  studying  aimed 
To  following  worlds  a  way, 

And  Natural  History  claimed 
Her  dearest  devotee. 

And  then  from  weeping  worlds 
He  stole  with  sad,  sweet  songs 

From  earth  to  Nature  whirls, 
She  claims  what  her  belongs. 

I  read,  I  thought ;  I  come 
To  tread  his  trail.     No  fame 

But  just  content  in  some 
Ways  mark  my  life  the  same. 

We  cannot  all  be  like 

This  one  whom  follow  we, 

But  we  can  love  the  work 
Blest  with  his  memory. 


LOST   IN   THE  WOODS 

""F  IS  sad  indeed  in  forest  to  be  lost 

And  wandering  weak  and  comfortless 

along, 
With  none  to  cheer  or  chide,  or  count  the 

cost 
Of   injuring  thoughts  that    to  lost    hope 

belong; 
And  dragging  self  with  pain  through  tearing 

thorn 
Laugh  loud  at  wildcat's  glaring  eye  and 

tooth. 
For  when  to  man's  mind  a  dreadful  death 

is  borne, 

He  watches  wearily  as  though  forsooth 
The  fact  to  him  was  of  importance  shorn. 

And  all  things  hap  as  in  a  dream, 
The  vaguest  fancies  find  their  way  to  him, 

And  every  leaf  and  limb  do  mocking  seem, 
They  look  so  like  in  shaded  light  so  dim. 

At  last  so  weak,  scarce  able  more  to  stand, 
Falls  faintly  on  the  ground,  starts  in  surprise 

At  familiar  marks  on  his  every  hand, 
And  sees  with  half-unconscious  eyes 

The  same,  same  spot  he  'd  left  at  sunrise. 


172 


THE  VIOLIN 

"TH  WAS  a  quiet  evening  and  almost  clear, 
*      But  a  shadowy  mist  was  musing 

And  swaying  in  doubt  from  a  June-born  fear 

Of  spoiling  an  eve  so  happy. 

Through  its  gossamer  the  stars  sat  still  and 
thought 

Like  a  spider  from  gauze-throne  watching. 

And  thrills  of  joy  the  evening  had  wrought, 

The  mists  in  a  sadness  were  weaving; 

A  sadness  that  lifts  from  a  sordid  life, 

From  a  sphere  of  drear  straining  and  strife, 

To   ethereal   realms   where   the   worlds   all 
revolve 

With  the  sweetest  music  sighing : 

As  the  notes  of  the  west  wind  to-night  re 
solve 

Into  chords  with  a  heavenly  harmonizing. 

I  wandered  listlessly  along 

The  country  road  that  winding, 

Charmed  by  the  bounding  brooklet's  song, 
Invited  not  the  idle  thronging 
173 


174  The  Violin 

Who  in  the  distance  lazily  strolled 

Along  the  social  highway. 
No  leaping  pulse  but  quiet-souled 

My  mind  led  in  contempt  from  the  gay. 

When  close  beside  the  listening  lane 

I  heard  a  violin  playing ; 
And  creeping  close,  saw,  through  the  pane 

Of  cot  both  small  and  hiding 
Within  the  trees,  a  gray-haired  man ; 

So  old  already  seeing 
To  Heaven's  gate,  his  glad  bow  ran 

To  rhyme  with  angel's  hymning. 

My  soul  unbound  and  throbbing  with  the 
theme 

Was  led  in  gladsome  travels  like  a  dream. 

One  moment  silent  by  a  woodland  stream 

I  catch  its  lyric  verse  from  silvery  gleam ; 

Then  musing,  wrapped  in  solemn  thought 
and  deep, 

I  climb  some  mist-web-captured  mountain- 
steep, 

And  hear  the  winds  moan  music  minster- 
deep, 

Like  amens  from  cathedral's  arched  keep. 

Or  nightingales  in  upward  flight  repeat 
Sonatas  sung  by  whirling  worlds  whose  beat 


The  Violin  175 

Thrills  through  our  hearts  on  nights   like 

these.     Then  sweet 

And  cheering  chirp  of  robin  modest,  neat. 
Through  all  of  Nature's  gamut  my  heart 

sings 

In  answer  to  the  calls  from  charmed  strings. 
My  longing  soul  leaps  forth,  in  sweet  strife 

brings 
My  mind  to  peace,  aside  all  earth-thought 

flings. 

The  cunning  mist  entangled  the  quiet  night ; 

My  minstrel  stopped  his  playing ; 
His  face  upturned  with  smiles  alight, 

He  seemed  in  peace  of  sleeping; 
But  something  strange  came  o'er  me, 

I  stepped  to  where  he  was  sitting, 
I  touched  him:  "Father,  peace  with  thee," 

His  forehead  's  cold,  unfeeling! 

Ay,  dead !     And  could  a  mortal  feel 

Such  heavenly  thoughts  inspiring 
As  he  had  brought  from  senseless  steel 

On  that  unearthly  evening ! 
Could  a  mere  man  so  play  and  live? 

Whene'er  I  hear  the  thrilling 
Of  a  violin,  to  Heaven  I  give 

My  soul  that  's  toward  it  striving. 


i;6  The  Violin 

The  violin  's  the  earth-brought  chord 

Of  music  of  the  spheres, 
That  gives  in  life  a  higher  ford 

On  which  Heaven  in  answer  nears. 


MANDOLIN    MEMORIES 

SERENADE  I 

JV/l  Y  mandolin's  tremolos  their  thrill  impart 
*    *     To  my  subdued,  expectant  heart, 
And  touch  with  tumult  my  uncertain  mind, 
As  leaves  are  tossed  by  playful  wind. 

The  stern  old  castle  wraps  his  shadow-gown 
And  seems  to  shiver  at  the  chill 

Of   ghostly  light  that  circled   moon  sends 

down, 
That  suits  his  cold  reserve  so  ill. 

The  meagre  breeze  scarce  teases  smooth-spun 

moat, 

The  silence  seems  to  shrill  my  note ; 
I  would  an  accompanying  bird  were  singing 

near! 
Music  must  ever  modesty  fear. 

But  rose-like  in  its  dark,  forbidding  bud 
That  peeps  through  opening  walls  at  day, 

12 

177 


178        Mandolin  Memories 


Yon  lintel  looses  hold  of  latticed  shade, 
Charmed  by  the  song  that  love  hath  made. 

A  heart  hath  heard  my  lay,  although  unseen 
I  know  she  lists.  The  castle's  frown 

To  me  is  now  dispelled,  the  friendless  scene 
Hath  changed,  in  beauty  all  has  grown. 

The  graceless  heath-bells'  lavender  coat  I  see 
Like  Mist-flowers  clothed  in  beauty, 
Whose  every  leaf 's  a  heart.     The  moat,  the 

trees, 
Attempt  to  drown  the  tuneful  breeze. 

A  timid  hand  slow  opes  the  shutter  wide, 
And  Orpheus-like  I  listening  bide, 
The  lintel  calls  her  modest  maid 
And  my  Eurydice  hath  strayed. 


SLEEPING  BEAUTY  ON  THE  LAKE 

SERENADE  II 

A  S  if  on  wind-blown  leaf  we  float, 
**     No  breeze-born  bubble  frights  our  boat. 
'T  is  though  a  sage,  deliberate  snail 
Was  master  in  the  art  of  sail. 

No  sound  except  when  loving  tide 
Throws  murmuring  kisses  on  our  bow, 

As  though  in  friendship  to  confide 
The  secret  of  her  placid  brow. 

Unmarred  to-night  by  fretting  frown, 
That  comes  when  in  unequal  fight 

She  tries  the  quarrelsome  wind  to  drown ; 
The  peaceful  west  wind  reigns  to-night. 

A  curious  longing  seems  to  fill 

The  night,  uneasy  at  the  rest 
Unworld-like,  but  must  needs  be  still 

At  meditation's  strange  behest. 
179 


i8o    Sleeping  Beauty  on  the  Lake 

Not  e'en  the  lance-like  call  of  loon, 
'T  is  though  the  world  were  in  a  swoon, 
Like  storied  maid  who  pricked  her  hand 
With  venomed  spindle,  witches'  brand. 

And  dare  I  on  my  waiting  strings 
Strike  chords  that  virgin  love  will  sing, 
The  kiss  that  will  disperse  the  spell, 
And  wake  the  choir  I  love  so  well? 

A  suited  setting  for  our  Lydian  lays, 
The  mandolin's  soft,  low  murmuring, 

Transporting  soul  to  dreamy  days 
To  come,  or  past,  which  happier  ring. 


THE  STORM  NEAR  THE   CORNISH 
COAST 

'T'HE  bold-winged  gulls  with  frightened  cry 

To  the  creviced  chalk  cliffs  fly, 
To  the  havens  safe  from  the  raging  waves 
In  the  weather-chiselled  caves. 
It  seems  that  the  Lord  to  warn  the  weak 
Hath  given  them  power  to  speak, 
They  in  trumpet  tones  the  caution  bear 
"Beware,  beware,  beware." 

Then  came  a  lurid  tongue  of  flame, 
The  storm-god's  dreaded  sword, 
That    rending    the    hurrying    storm-clouds 

came 

And  with  red  the  black  sky  gored. 
Their  anguished  groan  shook  the  mountain- 
heights, 

And  the  sea  was  flecked  with  foam, 
Then    came   the   rain   down    in    unchecked 

flights 
Beating  back  the  angered  comb. 


181 


SARGOSSA   SEA 

A   STRETCH  of  sea  o'ergrown  with  weeds, 

A  false  appearing  solid  leads 
The  mind  a  mocking  mainland  see, 
As  many  a  show  by  world  set  forth 
Substantial  seems  though  quicksands  be. 
This  tricky  tract  Sargossum  filled, 
Which  eye  thinks  hard  though  foot  sees  soft, 
Has  passed  for  fields  and  meadows  oft 
To  please  the  sailor's  eye. 

Thou  grewsome  grave  of  hundred  ships 

Denied  a  decent  death,  denied 
A  burial  too,  but  scornfully  left 

Towed  by  the  undertaker  Tide. 
No  tombstones  grace  thy  graves.     Thou  art 

Thine  own  memorial  monument. 
'T  were  better  if  on  native  land 

The  storm  to  nobler  death  had  sent 
Instead  of  this  sarcastic  strand. 


182 


THIS   BAB-EL-MANDEB 

"  |  JNLATCH  this  fate  of  tears,"  I  cry, 

^     "This  world  of  sob  and  sigh; 
Why  must  I  wait  while  friendships  die 
And  happiness  decry? " 

The  waves  of  sorrow  rise, 

Bear  down  before  my  eyes 

The  friends  I  love,  and  still  my  cries, 

And  still  the  tides  uprise. 

There  moans  my  friend  in  tears, 
With  sorrow  past  his  years, 
And  sympathy  traced  by  my  tears 
But  my  life's  etching  rears. 

But  on  the  angry  waves 
That  he  so  vainly  braves 
I  see  a  form  who  ever  saves — 
He  walks  the  watery  paves! 

A  voice  divine  in  will 
Speaks,  "Peace,  peace,  be  thou  still!  " 
The  storm  subsides,  a  restful  rill, 
And  hope  smoothes  o'er  the  ill. 


183 


FORGET-ME-NOT 

""T  IS  but  a  Christmas  card  of  long  ago, 

A  verse  or  two  entwined  with  mistle 
toe, — 

But  ah,  what  memories  linger,  sweet  but  sad, 
Yes,  sad,  though  joined  today  when  all  was 

glad. 
And  on  the  cover  lies  the  link  'tween  now 

and  yesterdays, 

In  faintest   blue   and   bound   in  straggling 
sprays, 

Forget-me-nots. 

And  Christmas  comes  and  Christmas  goes 

'tween  now  and  then, 
But  like  that  one  will  never  come  again. 
And  life  her  weary  trials  hath  given  till  they 
A  thorny  thicket  make  and  mar  the  way, 
But  through  that  tearing  thicket's  seeming 

close-entangled  thorn 

There  shines  a  spray  unfaded  and  untorn, — 
Forget-me-nots. 
184 


Forget-Me-Not  185 

No,  no,  not  yet,  not  e'er  will  I  forget, 
However  close  hangs  life's  care-carrying  net. 
I  wander  lonesome   through   the   flowered 

fields, 
Enjoy  the  blessed   blooms   that   this   field 

yields, 
But  there  is  one  more  loved  than  these  and 

one  that  cannot  die, 
'T  is  that  sweet  spray  that  brings  the  past 

so  nigh — 

Forget-me-nots. 


ZOOLOGY 

T"HERE  'S  a  song  that  sounds  oh,  how 
*      sweet ! 

And  it  's  sung  by  the  birds  to  my  heart, 
And  the  bees  and  the  bugs  they  take  part 

In  syllables  meet. 

And  the  moths  and  the  butterflies  bright 
Trill  the  tune  in  aerial  flight, 
Though  the  force  of  their  voice  is  so  light 
We  can't  hear. 

'T  is  a  work  that  is  teeming  with  joy, 
As  its  God's  blessed  creatures  we  view, 
And  we  call  them  by  name  and  we  learn 

All  they  do. 

We  write  down  each  one's  failings  and  faults 
In  the  way  that  the  Lord  notes  our  lives, 
And  our  mind  from  the  lessons  they  teach 

Good  derives. 

Still  Hyotomy  's  not  pleasant  work, 
But  there  's  never  a  song  e'er  so  sweet 
That  can  all  the  discords  well  shirk 
In  harmony  sweet. 
186 


Zoology  187 

For  we  pay  for  life's  pleasures  full  well 
With  a  pain  for  a  smile  and  a  kiss, 
For  there  's  only  one  place  that 's  all  bliss, — 
That  's  in  Heaven. 

So  the  good  of  this  song  hides  the  bad, 
We  can  render  the  discords  some  way 
That  they  mix  with  the  harmonies  glad 

And  are  lost. 

And  a  song  that  is  sung  in  this  way 
Is  more  sweet  to  the  ear  and  the  mind, 
For  the  chords  that  are  borne  by  the  wind 

Are  the  rhymed. 

If  you  look  with  unsophistried  eyes 
The  affairs  of  this  life  harmonize, 
And  the  taint  of  a  discord  is  hid 

By  the  joys. 

For  the  Christ  in  His  sojourn  on  earth 
Suffered  pain  and  adversity's  thrust, 
So  we  '11  work  and  forget  the  bad 

As  we  trust. 


THE   MATCH    BOY 

""P  WAS  but  a  lad,  a  lonely  lad  and  young, 
Too  young  to  march  the  weary  miles 

to  sell 

The  matches  which  he  holds,  but  needs  re 
quired. 
He  sits  all-tired  beside  a  stone-walled  well. 

The  country  's  bare   from   winter's  raging 

war, 
The  evening  's  cold,  and  stars  and  moon 

belie 
The   snows    enshrouded    deep    within   the 

clouds, 

That  watch  with  eager  eyes  the  time  to 
fly. 

"My  mamma  's  with  those  stars,  but  papa  's 

not, 

Oh,  I  'm  so  'fraid  he  never  will  be  there! 
Why  can't  I  find  a  way  to  walk  up  there? 
The  people  sing  about  a  golden  stair. 
188 


The  Match  Boy  189 

"They  must  have  matches  up  in  Heaven," 

he  said; 

"I  heered  a  wise  man  say  some  stars  was  fed 
With   light    by   friction's    force,    and    that 

word  's  wrote 
On  each  these  little  boxes  that  I  tote. 

"Oh,    one  's    gone    out!     Sometimes    my 

matches  fail ; 
They  ought  to  hold  their  hands  to  stop 

the  wind, 

It  must  be  blowin'  hard  up  there, — and  me, 
I  'm  cold,  so  cold,  and  no  warm  place  to 
find. 

"I  wonder  where  's  that  star  that  mother 

knew  ? 

She  said  it  showed  to  lead  the  shepherds  true 
When  Christ,  the  babe  of  Bethlehem,  was 

born, — 
Why  cannot  I  to-night  in  Heaven  be  born?  " 

The  morning  came  all  dressed  in  mourning 

white 
That  He  had  sent,    the   birthright  of  the 

night. 
The    village    church-bells  rang    for   Easter 

prayer, 
All  Nature  lay  in  worship  still  and  fair. 


1 90  The  Match  Boy 

Upon  the  road  they  found  the  little  lad ; 
With  solemn  rite  they  laid  him  with  the 

dead, 

And  noticed  on  the  face  so  usually  sad 
In  place  of  frown  a  sweet  smile  reigned 
instead. 

The  stars  that  hid  before  the  snow  had  led 

The  weary  one  to  worship  at  His  feet. 
Their  work  completed  then  they  mournfully 

fled 

And   hid   their  heads   within   their   blue 
retreat, — 

Too  tender  to  watch  the  undertaker  cloud 
While  weaving  slow  his  soft  and  pure-white 

shroud. 

And  all  was  quiet  on  that  Easter  morn, 
But  joy  in  Heaven  for  there  a  saint  was  born. 


THE  WRECK 

IN    sea-sand   steeped    all    but    the    deck, 
washed  white, 

And  bathed  in  moonlight,  silvery  blue, 
There  stands  a  victim  of  some  stormy  night, 

That  mocking  wind  thus  homeward  blew. 

The  scene  is  one  to  wake  the  saddened 
thought, 

A  boat  in  black  upon  a  snow-white  strand, 
And  sea  ashine  in  silver  light,  moonwrought, 

That  leaps  in  diamond  fire  to  land. 

I  read  from  rotten  timbers  there  a  tale 
Of  homes,  and  many  mothers  there 

Who  watched  and  waited  for  sons'  home- 
bound  sail, 
Till  sorrow  touched  with  snow  their  hair. 

I  've  many  friends  who  've  gone  the  same 

sad  way — 

This  scene  recalls  their  fate  to  me. 
191 


192  The  Wreck 

How  large  a  share  of  sorrow  can  we  lay 
Against  the  all-avenging  sea ! 

The  cold,  stern,  unrelenting  sea  stayed  still, 
But  silent  claims  from  fight  the  spoils, 

And    mourning    mothers,    weeping    wives, 

ne'er  will 
Bring  back  the  lost  from  out  its  toils. 

The  stars  look  sadly  down,  the  waves  break 
low, 

And  round  the  wreck  in  soft  tones  sing. 
They  sorrowed  seem  for  what  they  've  done, 

And  tears  of  foam  upon  it  fling. 


\I  7 HAT  joy  we  '11  feel  when,  fighting  o'er, 
^*       We  march  to  Heaven  for  mustering 

out, 

And  arms  and  armor  need  no  more, 
But  march  to  time's  triumphant  shout. 

No  more  the  tempting  foe  to  fight, 
No  more  to  brave  the  battle's  blight, 
But  ranged  'fore  God  in  sage  review 
Receive  for  work  our  well-earned  due. 

Meet  eulogy  for  banners  borne 

Unwavering  through  the  stirring  strife, 

That  tell  in  lines  unstained,  though  torn, 
That  God  was  leader  all  through  life. 

And  then  back  from  the  weary  war 
We  '11  meet  our  mothers  waiting  there, 

We  '11  find  them  standing  on  the  shore 
With  all  our  loved  ones  over  there. 


193 


A  TRAGEDY 

time  these  two  were  lovers  true, 
And  now  they  meet  again. 
He  came  the  cold  heart  back  to  sue 
That  all  might  be  as  then. 

His  pleading  pulsed  with  eloquence 

That  only  love  can  give, 
But  she  with  torturing  diffidence 

Refused  to  bid  him  live. 

He  turned  to  hide  a  shaming  tear, 
Oft  wooed,  ne'er  won,  by  fear, 
Then  made  with  manner  dazed  and  slow 
The  brave  resolve  to  go. 

She  took  his  sword  from  off  the  stand 
(Placed  there  when  he  came  in) 

With  laughing  lips  and  careless  hand, 
That  he  had  hoped  to  win : 

Held  out  the  blade,  which  he  refused, 
Standing  as  one  that  mused. 
194 


A  Tragedy  195 

"  Why  don't  you  go,  why  do  you  wait? 
I  'm  tired,  't  is  growing  late." 

'T  were  better  had  she  plunged  the  steel 

Into  that  manly  breast, 
Than  words  which  time  or  art  can  never  heal, 
'T  were  better,  ah,  yes,  't  were  best. 


MEDITATION,  DAY  AND  NIGHT' 

•T HROUGH  the  weary  work  of  day 

I  am  thinking,  Lord,  of  Thee, 
And  at  night  these  sweet  thoughts  stay, 
For  I  know  Thou  think'st  of  me. 

Whether  in  the  forest's  gloom 
With  the  savage  beasts  around, 

Or  sit  safely  in  my  room, 

I  have  always  there  Thee  found. 

Ever  present  in  my  thought, 

E'en  when  most  absorbed  in  work; 

For  what  work  's  without  Thee  wrought? 
In  all  work  life-lessons  lurk. 

In  the  morning,  noon,  and  night 

On  Thy  word  I  meditate, 
So  's  to  aid  the  battle  fight 

And  help  to  Heaven's  gate. 


196 


DESPAIR   NOT 

\17HY  weep  o'er  wasted  past, 
*^      A  shadow  sad  o'er  future  cast, 
For  one  mistake  make  life  all  rue? 
There  's  ever  something  we  can  do. 

To  nurse  regret  through  hours  long 
For  one  lost  act  of  good — 't  is  wrong. 
You  failed  to  help, — try  something  new: 
There  's  ever  something  we  can  do. 

If  offered  help  but  brings  disdain 
God  knew  your  thought,  't  is  still  your  gain; 
Others  still  ask  for  love  from  you : 
There  's  ever  something  we  can  do. 

We  sometimes  turn  God's  love  away: 
He  sighs,  but  bears  with  us  each  day. 
Assist,  it  makes  no  difference  who, — 
There  's  ever  something  we  can  do. 


197 


EULOGY 

T  WOULD  not  be  a  flower 
*     And  grace  the  loveliest  bower; 
I  would  not  wish  that  fame 
That  lauds  and  prints  your  name. 

'T  is  poor,  poor  pay  at  best, 
Nor  doth  respect  attest, 
Set  up  for  common  show 
To  find  out  what  you  know. 

I  'd  rather  be  a  tree 

In  lonely  woodland  glade, 

That  's  seen  its  sixth  century, 
Its  quiet  history  made. 

And  there  in  neighbor's  love 
I  'd  turn  my  head  above ; 
My  deeds  make  no  great  sound, 
But  blessings  give  all  round. 

'T  is  all  we  ask  of  you — 
To  give  our  work  its  due. 
198 


Eulogy  199 

We  give  you  outlined  thought 
On  which  to  think  you  ought. 

The  greatest  of  rewards 

Would  be,  to  see  you  all 
Lead  to  the  Lord  and  Lord's 

In  answer  to  our  call. 


THE   SARACEN   TO   HIS  SWORD 

,  model  of  the  new-born  moon, 
Make  low  my  foemen's  tide, 

As  in  the  mighty  sun  at  noon 
The  rose  fell  faint  and  died. 

The  hated  horde  have  halted  just  in  view, 

As  sharks  around  a  dying  crew. 

"Remember  how  you  served  my  sires 

And  flash  once  more  to-day, 
Like  sun  upon  the  gilded  spires 

When  Allah  calls  to  pray. 
And  may  thy  sickled  form  new  courage  gain 
To  reap  the  hated  hostile  grain. 

"Thy  handle  's  set  with  lucky-stones, 

May  their  color  e'er  be  bright ! 
Like  those  around  my  fathers'  thrones 

That  shine  with  celestial  light. 
Remember  those  who  wait  our  return  with 

fame — 
Thou  wouldst  not  let  it  be  in  shame!  " 


THE   MEXICAN    MAID 

'"FHE  raven  tresses  flowing  full  and  free, 

That  traitorous  rebosa  cannot  hide, 
Cast  twilight  shade  on  the  rounded  beauty 
Of  her  face,  where  fleeting  feelings  peep 
and  hide. 

And  eyes  e'er  holding  commune  with  the 
mind 

Reflect  each  momentary  emotion  there, 
Or  as  toward  some  retreating  theme  inclined 

Defy  all  reading  efforts  thoughts  to  share. 

Ah,  twilight  is  your  realm  of  life,  O  maid, 
Forerunner  of  a  beauteous  tropic  night, 

When  brave  romances  mounted  on  the  shade 
Come  chasing  after  fast  retreating  light ! 

But   fickle   knights  they  are   but   twilights 

too, 
And  soon  retreat  to  draw  their  swords  and 

woo 

901 


202         The  Mexican  Maid 


In  other  ranks  and  other  realms  where  shades 
With   trembling    shadows   mark   the   fickle 
maids. 

The  tropic  twilight  is  its  moonlight  eve, 
A  tremor   'tween   the   daylight   and   the 

dark. 

Its  love  a  nervous  passion  cannot  weave, 
The   restless  rose  can't   keep  its  beauty 
mark. 


THE   MEETING-HOUSE 

HERE  by  the  brook  that  only  hath  re 
pelled 
The   mark   of   flying  years,   where   spot  is 

knelled 
With  ugly  stumps  that  once  were  towering 

trees, 

The  meeting-house  still  stands,   but  ill  at 
ease. 

The  door  that  welcomed,  in  the  years  gone 

by, 
The  simple  folk,  all  friends,  come  here  in 

prayer, 

By  stormy  vandals  sieged  doth  prostrate  lie, 
That  through  the  breach  go  rushing  here 
and  there. 

The  conquered  countries  all  their  fashions 

take 
From    victor's   mode,    and    elements    here 

make 

203 


204       The  Meeting-House 

The  changes  suited  to  their  different  style, 
But  kindly  give  our  work  long  years  of  trial. 

Where  hung  the  muslin  shades  are  tapestries 
Like  those  that  on  our  panes  the  frost  doth 

freeze, 

And  busy  spiders  take  the  place  of  hands 
Long  folded  in  sweet  rest    at  death's  de 
mands. 

The    circled    woof    that    orb-knitters    have 

spun, 

Concentric  circles  round  and  round  they  run ; 
Or  conic  nests  of  finest  textile  braid, 
That  weavers  of  the  funnel-web  have  made. 

And  they  who  used  to  frequent  this  dear 

place 
Have  spun  each  one  his  web  and  circled 

by, 

Wider,  farther,  until  he  ran  his  race, 

Then   crawled   toward    natal   homestead, 
there  to  die. 

From  chimney  wrinkled,  bent  with  age, 
I  hear  the  thunder  of  the  nesting  swifts, 

Each  at  unwelcome  visitant  in  rage 
A  discontented  murmur  noisily  lifts. 


The  Meeting-House        205 

The  floor  is  covered  with  a  brocade  brown, 
Embroidered    with   a   neat    design,    well 

made 
By  feet  of  curious  crows  who  've  wandered 

in 
To  aid  the  wind-blown  dust  a  carpet  spin. 

Between  where  crows'-feet  left  their  fleur- 
de-lis 

A  tinier  tracked  design  I  knowing  see ; 

The  mice  have  also  craftsmen  then  become ; 

They  usually  strive  all  handiwork  to  o'er- 
come. 

And  we  who  met  here  in  the  years  gone  by 
We  crows'-feet  bear,  for  Time  don't  always 

fly. 
These  interspersed  with  deep-drawn  lines  of 

care 
That  speak  of  changes  our  poor  lives  must 

bear. 


DREAMS 

V\7ITH  closed  eye 
I  sit  and  sigh 

When  day  is  done  and  night  is  nigh, 
And  eyeless  see 
What  eyes  can't  see, 
Those  sweet,  sad  scenes  of  memory. 

And  rove  again 

O'er  moor  and  fen, 

Or  run  the  wildcat  to  its  den. 

What  frightens  me 

Then  gave  but  glee ; 

Eye  followed  by  the  foot  so  free. 

Or  Dover's  doves 
Which  the  sailor  loves ; 
From  songless  cries  the  shrillness  dies 
Though  seas  between, 
We  're  hard  to  wean, 

Their  song  's  most  sweet  in  memory's  scene. 
206 


Dreams  207 

The  mountains  high 

That  pierce  the  sky, 

Half  held  by  earth  and  half  by  sky, 

All  give  a  stone, 

Of  life  a  part  loan 

To  inlaid  structure  of  mine  own. 

The  past  prepares 

From  present  cares 

Her  banner  bright ;  that  bears 

Us  through  to-day. 

Thus  rest  find  I, 

Till  at  the  Dawn,  whose  night  is  nigh. 


HIDDEN   BEAUTY 

LJOW  oft  from  verdure-vault  I  Ve  dug 
A  *     Some  bashful  beetle  or  a  bug, 
Whose  bright  empurpled  coats  refuse 
The  sun's  light  in  prismatic  hues! 

All  men  have  eyes  and  yet  see  not 
One  half  the  beauty  of  the  earth, 

But  with  the  trustlessness  of  Lot, 
From  plenty  toil  to  gain  a  dearth. 

How  oft  a  dusty,  time-soiled  tome 
Found  in  some  uninviting  home 
Hath  willed  a  wealth  of  thought  and  wit, 
That  in  our  Senate  now  might  sit ! 

Most  beauty  's  modest,  must  be  shown 

Appreciation  and  respect, 
Repelling  all  who  come  alone 

With  curious  eyes  and  deference  neglect. 


208 


BOATING  SONG 


sails  are  gently  filling, 
Blown  by  the  breeze, 
The  spray  o'er  bow  distilling, 
Its  milk-white  frieze. 

Our  bark  o'er  foam  in  flying 

Sails  silvery  seas  ; 
As  if  mean  earth  defying, 

To  Cloudland  flees. 

A  song  in  joy  we  're  singing 

To  white-winged  craft  ; 
Blest  bird,  us  homeward  bringing, 

To  loved  ones  waft. 

And  now  our  sails  we  're  trimming 

For  landing  sweet  ; 
O'er  still,  smooth  water  skimming, 

Our  friends  to  greet. 


209 


NATURE'S   OWN    NATION 

HTHE  smoky  sky  of  an   Indian-summer's 

day 

A  hazy  halo  o'er  the  fields  now  weaves, 
Like  camp-fires  built  by  squaws  on  rainy 

day, 

When  wet  had  drenched  the  brush  and 
leaves. 

And  fancy  finds  me  forms  of  flying  men 
Pursuing  through  the  woods  the  frightened 
deer. 

'T  is  now  the  braves,  so  like  the  winter  wren, 
Were  wont  to  gather  food  for  winter  drear. 

And  harvested  stacks  of  corn  arranged  in  rows 
Make  ideal  wigwams  for  imagined  men ; 

And  round  the  top  the  silk-entasselled  bows 
Seem  trophies  set  in  tepee's  top  again. 

But  long  since  gathered  to  their  fathers  they, 
And  council's  fire  that  blazed  in  former  day 


Nature's  Own  Nation       211 


Hath  burned  away ;  a  saddened  few  attest 
That  most  have  gone  toward  setting  sun  and 
rest. 

Dear  Nature's  noblemen  were  they,  whose 

mail, 

Simplicity,  was  guard  against  all  sin, 
Till  on  their  flower  of  purity  the  hail 

Of  white  man's  curse  came  beating,  blight 
ing  in. 


PRAYER 

A17HEN  to  your  Savior  you  have  prayed 

All  sorrows  quickly  fade, 
As  stone-set  plant  in  scorching  sun 
Before  the  root  's  begun. 

For  sorrow  's  not  akin  to  man, 
Though  met  in  every  clan, 
It  is  an  incongruity 
In  souls  that  would  be  free. 

In  childish  grief  our  mothers  soothe, 

When  more  mature  we  pray ; 
How  she  the  wrinkled  cares  would  smooth, 

Recall  the  smiles  to  play ! 

'T  was  mother  dear  who  taught  us  prayer, 

She  too  is  now  above. 
How  meet  to  seek  for  comfort  there, 

Drawn  by  a  mother's  love ! 

Perhaps  we  too  will  soon  be  there 
To  talk  without  a  prayer ; 
But  still  't  is  sweetest  sort  of  speech 
That  wisest  tongues  can  teach. 


212 


THE   OCEAN   OF   LIFE 

'"THE  midnight  moon  so  clear  and  bright 
Withdrew  his  cheerful,  welcome  light 
Behind  a  smothering  fleecy  cloud 
That  not  one  escaping  ray  allowed. 

A  shiver  seemed  to  penetrate 

To  Nature's  heart,  and  all  was  cold, 

As  on  a  joyous  summer  fete 

When  village  funeral  bell  is  tolled. 

I  saw  an  object  in  the  tide 

And  drifting  slowly  toward  the  shore ; 
Each  sullen  wave  upon  its  side 

Pushed  painfully  toward  the  waiting  shore. 

As  warrior  'gainst  o'erwhelming  force 

Slowly,  reluctantly  retreats ; 
One  billow  broken  with  a  foaming  course, 

But  quick  succeeding  next  defeats. 

Sometimes  a  dash  of  silvery  spray 
Shows  white  upon  the  gloomy  wave, 
213 


214         The  Ocean  of  Life 


As  nature-sculptured  salt  display 
When  light  is  born  to  virgin  cave. 

By  all-resistless  mighty  strength 
The  tide-tossed  object  lies  at  length 
Upon  the  resting,  strifeless  strand, 
To  wonder  why  it  was  averse  to  land. 

Upon  life's  ocean  I  am  tossed 

And  drifting  slowly  toward  the  shore. 

The  years,  life's  waves,  with  will  uncrossed 
Waft  me  by  their  resistless  war. 

And  why,  then,  should  I  struggle  so 
At  leaving  this  dark,  gloomy  life? 

Why  not  drift  calmly  with  the  flow 

Toward  place  of  peace  from  stormy  strife? 

Ah  yes,  if  't  were  not  for  the  joys 
That  sometimes  soothe  the  tiring  noise, 
The  occasional  dash  of  silvery  spume 
That  brings  relief  in  usual  gloom ! 

Each  new  succeeding  year  propels 
Me  nearer  to  the  bounding  shore; 

Each  clearer  than  the  last  foretells 
That  soon  I  '11  tossing  drift  no  more. 


THE   HAPPY   DEAD 

""THE  tomb  said  to  the  crumpled  note 
That  lay  beside  its  mossy  mound, 
Forsaken  on  the  unrespecting  ground, 
Where  dew-drops  tinting  on  it  wrote : 

"Why  hast  thou  those  sad  tears  at  dawn, 
When  all  should  wake  refreshed  with  joy? 
If  thou  wert  I,  thou  trifling  toy, 

Thou  'dst  have  cause  smiles  for  grief  to  pawn. 

"I  hold  a  mother  loved  and  mourned, 
And  sorrowing  children  gather  here, 
Console  each  other,  drawing  near, 

As  mutual  loss  is  felt  and  mourned." 

The  note  replied :  ' '  Beneath  my  fold, 
In  neat  and  pretty  girlish  script, 
Lies  greater  grief  than  yours,  O  Crypt ! 

A  heart,  a  living  heart,  but  cold. 

"A  plea  for  life,  with  this  reply 

(And  written  to  a  school-girl  friend, 
215 


216          The  Happy  Dead 

She  thought  his  heart  thus  more  to  rend), 
'I  '11  bother  not  his  feigned  tears  dry.'  ' 

The  tomb  grew  thoughtful  for  a  while : 
"My  dead  rest  peacefully  with  God; 
Your  writer  soon  with  new  love  shod 

Will  with  contempt  on  grieving  smile. 

"Your  mourner  knows  no  fellowship 
To  dry  his  tears  at  sight  of  theirs. 
Mine  pitying  cannot  make  repairs, 

Yours  scorning  will  not  mend  the  slip." 

A  breeze  that  had  till  now  stood  still 

To  listen  to  the  sad  note  cite, 

Came  sighing  through  the  trees,  and  light 
Replying  sighs  the  leafed  tomb  fill. 

With  thanks  for  pity,  farewells  said, 

The  note  went  hand  in  hand  with  breeze 
Beneath  the  weeping  willow  trees, 

And  left  the  tomb  with  its  happy  dead. 


UNLOVED 

VX7ITH  spur  of  loneliness  I  strayed 
*          To  Nature's  throne  in  a  courtly  glade 
Where  twining  boughs  gothic  arches  made, 
To  seek  her  thankful  accolade 
For  faithful  following  through  the  year, 
But  even  this  glad  seat  was  sere. 

And  destitute  in  this  wide  world 

Of  loving  friends,  aimlessly 
I  wandered  far.     My  hopes  all  furled 

And  life  a  calm,  no  cheer  for  me, 
No  wind  to  waft  me  on  my  course, 
And  naught  with  wish  of  forward  force. 

Where   hides    that    one   that    walked   with 

me  ? 

How  oft  we  sat  beneath  that  tree 
And  saw  the  squirrel  seek  the  nut ! 

What,  oak,  and  thou  art  grieving  too ! 
Some  forester  has  cruelly  cut 

The  twining  vines  that  loved  you. 
317 


218  Unloved 

Unloved,  what  does  thy  strength  avail? 
The  snow  of  sorrow,  pain's  sharp  hail 
Will  prey  upon  your  lonely  heart, 

And  unprotected  by  the  love 
So  tender,  yet  of  mighty  art 

To  cheer,  how  long  wilt  stand  above? 

Already  you  and  I  commence 
To  show  the  strain  of  grief  so  tense. 
Our  heads  once  so  ambitious,  proud, 
By  smiles  uncheered  are  burden-bowed ; 
But  grief  is  not  the  only  frost  we  bear 
Or  blighting  ban  that  we  must  wear ; 

'T  is  hard  enough  that  Nature  takes 
What  Nature  nurtured,  Nature  makes. 
Our  hearts  were  not  so  pained  if  they 

So  frail  were  faded  by  the  frost ; 
That  's  Nature's  law.     But  borne  away 

To  trim  another's  home  at  our  life's  cost ! 

Their  beauty  lured  some  woodman's  blade, 

Who  placed  them  in  a  palace  grand, 
A  prettier  home  than  lonesome  glade, 

.  Wrapped  now  at  winter's  stern  demand 
In  sombre  hues.     With  summer's  bloom 
Their  yearning  hearts  may  gain  the  wintry 
gloom. 


Unloved  219 

Old  oak,  our  strength  amounts  to  naught ; 

'T  is  well  the  snows  are  eating  fast 
Into   our   hearts,   and  soon  by  work  they 

wrought 

With  all  our  strength  we  '11  lie  at  last. 
The  vines  then  penitent  will  grow, 
But  begging  eyes  but  cumbent  trunks  will 
show. 


GEOLOGIC   MAN 

A  LL  men  resemble  geologic  rocks : 
V*     As  each  upholds  on  earth  his  form 
Each  shows  by  life  he  leads  his  origin 
And  whether  born  mid  flowers  or  in  storm. 

A  sedimentary  rock  by  settling  sand 

Is   formed,    and   many   men   by   gradual 

growth 
Gain   wealth   of  wisdom.      By  slow   study 

stand 
Above  the  world  where  those  of  quicker 

growth 
Like  Bible's  rootless  plant  ne'er  rise  so  high. 

The  noblest  character  is  ever  formed 
But  step  by  step,  and  grain  on  grain  is  laid, 
And  hardened  down  by  many  tempests 
stormed. 

Organic  rocks  are  made  of  mingled  mites 
That  once  were  living  forms.     Some  men 
are  made 

220 


Geologic  Man  221 

Of  efforts  by  another  given.     Each  trait 
Admired  shows  fossilled  forms  that  cannot 

fade, 

Of  his  mother  or  a  minister's  strong  stress. 
Within  each  goodly  deed  we  read  a  tale 
Of  those  who  jointly  strove  this  soul  to  bless 
And  form  a  solid  character  that  would  not 
fail. 

And  last,  not  least,  are  they  who  constitute 
The   igneous    class    of   rock.      They    're 

formed  by  fire, 

And  under  pressure  are  prepared,  the  root 
Of  life  that  's  destined  to  take   station 

higher 

In  after  years.  When  danger  oft  we  meet 
We  can  more  safely  its  known  perils  greet ; 
And  man  whose  life  has  under  fire  been 

formed 
Knows  best  defense  when  by  same  foe  he  's 

stormed. 


I   LOVE   HIM   YET 

more  hath  God  thought  best  to 
wound, 

Again  defeat  my  efforts  crowned ; 
He  does  not  hate  though  He  has  frowned ; 
My  heart  is  set, 
I  love  Him  yet. 

And  if  my  sorrows  steadily  grow 

I  '11  try  and  make  my  groanings  low, 

That  all  my  sufferings  may  not  show, 

Like  Job  be  set ; 

And  love  Him  yet. 

O  Lord !  I  thank  Thee  for  this  cross 

And  count  as  gain  all  earthly  loss ; 

Thou  sayest  there  's  gold  for  all  this  dross ; 

My  heart  is  set, 

I  love  Thee  yet. 


222 


TO   LOVE 

'"TO  love  is  like  the  picking  of  a  rose, 
*      Although  unseen,  perhaps,  the  thorn 

is  there ; 

Perhaps  our  soul  will  soon  in  sorrow's  throes 
Contend,  that  now  pulsates  in  bliss. 

And  though  the  former  perfume  still  remains 
When  many  years  have  passed  'tween  now 

and  then, 

That  can't  atone  for  faithful  thorn  that  pains 
When  memory's  wind  blows  sweetly  near 
again. 

To  love  is  like  the  picking  of  a  rose, 

And  after — lonesome  is  the  stem  and  sad. 

They  say  "Inanimate,  can  feel  no  woes," 
What  do  they  say  of  me  when  I  am  sad  ? 

"His  heart  is  dead,"  they  say  where'er  I  go. 
A  dead  thing  throb  and  burn  and  pain  me  so? 
A  coal  may  sear  e'en  though  it  does  not  glow, 
Ah  little,  oh  how  little  do  they  know ! 


223 


MY  MOTHER 

"T1  IS  the  sweetest  word  we  know, 
And  it  's  one  we  whisper  low, 
For  it  thrills  through  every  heart 
Its  peace  and  rest  to  impart. 

There  are  those  who  've  done  great  deeds 
Of  which  one  in  wonder  reads, 
Women  who  seemed  the  world  to  please, 
But  my  mother  's  not  like  these; 

But  her  deeds  are  sung  above 
And  she  's  thought  of  but  in  love, 
For  she  's  quiet  and  so  sweet ; 
If  you  could  my  mother  meet ! 


224 


ROMAN  RELICS   IN    ENGLAND 

D  EN  EAT H  yon  Druid  altar  shade  we  view 
The     wondrous    works    the     invaders 

wrought  with  toil ; 
Aye,  conquerors,   though  their  songs  were 

short  indeed. 

Those  vantage-points  in  this  barbaric  soil, 
The  cultured  strongholds,  homes  of  victors 

then, 
Part  winners  then,  part  winners  doomed 

to  stay ; 
In  land  where  e'en  the  storms  and  winds 

were  men 
To  guard  their  almost  virgin  shore;  the 

way, 

'Cept  by  the  rumors  merchant-strewn,  un 
known. 
And  rocks  and  reefs  formed  potent  navies 

there, 
Assailed    the    tortured    ships;    by   Nature 

thrown ; 

Discouragement   was   near,  but   brought 
no  fear. 

225 


226    Roman  Relics  in  England 

The   bravery   borne  in    righteous    cause   is 

blest, 

But  bravery  backed  by  tyranny  is  curst ; 
And  now  these  mighty  walls  are  laid  to  rest ; 
The  forts  that  scorned  the  foe's  attempt 

to  burst 

Have  ivy-conquered  sunk  to  self-same  state 
'Fore  Nature  made  them  rock,  but  else 

than  war 
Hath  left  its  signa  slumbering  here : 

For  wicked  luxury  leaves  in  rock-formed 

lore 

A  tale  of  times  when  pleasure  was  a  trade ; 
The  massive  baths  whose  grandeur  e'en 

now  lives 
To  claim  its  comment  just;  but  man  ne'er 

made 

The  work  that  bore  the  buffets  Nature 
gives. 

And  now  with  powers  that  once  prevailed 

o'er  all, 

Whose  mandates  made  the  world  in  trem 
bling  bow, 

Its  tools  to  harmless  dust  ignobly  fall, 
To  garnish  graves  in  effigy  that  hold 
The   nation   named  with   every    name   but 
"Good," 


Roman  Relics  in  England    227 

And  graced  with  every  god  but  Christ. 

The  gold 
And  purple  now  are  turned  to  green ;  where 

stood 
The  cohorts,  crows  and  ravens  wheel  and 

flank. 
These  works  are  books,  the  men  the  pages 

old, 
And  long  since  closed,  they  lie  upon  their 

rest, 
Where  many  years  have  moulded  o'er  and 

dressed 
Them  deep  in  dust.     Unused  though  print 

grows  never  dim. 


FATHER 

I   'VE  mentioned  father  once  before, 

*     There  're  those  in  weary  world  of  ours 

We  like  to  linger  with  far  more 

Than  we  have  hours. 
This  noble  man  is  one  to  whom 

Close  study  makes  one  closer  cling; 
The  more  we  know  the  more  we  wish, 

'Mong  men  a  king. 
His  work  to  cure  and  comfort  ills 
And  his  delight  do  what  God  wills. 
A  pain  seems  light,  our  suffering  's  still 
As  he  steps  o'er  the  sill. 


228 


A  STONE   FROM   SOLOMON'S 
TEMPLE 

A     FRAGMENT   found   by   friends    and 
•**•         given  to  me, 

That  I  with  it  as  keystone  build  an  arch 
To  span  the  stream  that  now  is  most  a  sea, 

And  block  for  moment  brief  Time's  on 
ward  march. 

The  co-essential  fir  and  cedar  fade, 

And  e'en  the  walls  of  your  strong  substance 

made 

Now  He  in  attitude  of  humble  prayer, 
From   persecutions   more  than  they  could 

bear. 

The  earth  sailed  seven  times  around  the  sun 
While   workmen    wrought   to   rear    your 

stately  walls, 

But  many,  many  times  that  seven  she  's  run 
'Fore   your  completely  conquered  struc 
ture  falls. 

229 


230  Stone  from  Solomon's  Temple 

In  silence  shaped,  then  doomed  to  under 
go 
The  siege  of  turbulent  times  and  sadly 

scarred 

By  desecrations  all-unearned.     And  slow 
Thy  virgin  purity  was  mournfully  marred. 

And  now  once  more  in  sleeping  silence 
cloaked, 

The  changeful  course  of  your  long  life  re 
voked, 

The  death  as  peaceful,  quiet  as  the  birth, 

For  the  longest  trial  of  trouble  's  like  a  girth 

And  must  possess  two  ends.     Our  soul 
Departing  on  a  new  and  unknown  role, 
With  sorrow  sick  will  soon  resign  the  course 
And   seek   the   comfort,    rest    from    former 
source. 

This  stone  may  aid  me  build  a  Bridge  of 

Sighs 

O'er  which  my  thoughts,  by  memory  pris 
oners  held, 
Now  march  with  solemn  step  and  downcast 

eyes, 

To  mourn  the  once  surpassing  fane,  now 
felled. 


Stone  from  Solomon's  Temple  231 

The  wise  and  good  king  had  me  not  in  mind 
When    by   his    building-orders    thou    wert 

mined, 
But  friends  with  whom  I  have  a  place  in 

heart 
Have  given  this  gem  from  history  of  art. 

'T  is  not  the  cost  or  rarity  we  prize 

In  gifts,  but  halo  cast  by  loving  thought ; 

Our  heart  remembering  kindness  helps  the 

eyes 
And  speechless  appreciation  's  wrought. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A   PIECE  OF 
COAL 

\17HEN  Nature  made  this  world  for  man's 
VV      abode 

She  many,  many  modes  of  structure  tried. 
And  each  unsuited  to  our  varied  wants,  she 

strode 
With  dire  destruction  o'er  her  work;  naught 

did  abide 

But  ruins  of  the  former  plan,  which  hid  in  fear 
'Neath  new-laid  layers  of  earth,  made  map 

of  old  so  clear. 

A  feathery  fern  that  flourished  in  a  pretty  vale 
In  time  of  Acrogenic  Age,  when  flowers  paid 
By  family  fealty  to  the  fern,  stretched  fronds 

so  frail 
Appealed  to  Nature  for  its  life.    Now  Nature 

made 
Her  mind  unwavering  to  change  the  present 

plan, 
And  fern,  though  now  a  prince  of  plants, 

felt  self-same  ban 
232 


A  Piece  of  Coal  233 


That  wrecked  the  poor  Plebeian  plants  and 
chance-grown  weeds ; 

For  Nature  thought  that  she  could  make  in 
members  modified 

A  fern  of  form  very  near  the  same,  more 
suited  to  our  needs. 

But  Nature,  although  sometimes  seeming, 
is  not  cruel, 

And  felt  compunction  at  the  slaughter  of 
the  ferns. 

She  carefully  wrapped  them  in  an  e'er- 
enduring  case, 

And  mummies  made.  As  Nature  each  suc 
ceeding  spurns 

That  age  assists  to  hide  the  frightened  ferns. 

Thus  hunted  long  the  fern,  like  a  suspected 
man 

In  abject  terror  starts  at  sound  of  each  con 
demned  plan. 

Her  disposition  gradually  changed  from  lov 
ing,  tender,  kind, 

Till  now  a  cold  (coaled),  hard  character  we  find. 

And  what  a  change!  From  living  beauty 
bright  to  black 

And  dirty  mass,  inelegant,  and  dead.  We 
hack 

As  vandals  these  remains.  'T  is  even  thus 
with  men 


234  A  Piece  of  Coal 


Reduced  to  misery  in  their  sins,  we  never 
think 

That  once  they  were  not  so.  We,  spurning, 
deeper  sink 

In  degradation's  mire.  Disease  and  death 
and  sin 

We  can  o'ercome,  but  ne'er  discouragement. 
We  win 

Sometimes  a  perfect  fern  from  out  the  black 
ened  mass; 

These  fossils  teach  that  darkest  coat  may 
hold  a  heart, 

That  all  is  never  without  hope.  When 
people  pass 

Think  on  the  tale  of  wronged  fern.  Play 
not  the  part 

Of  covering,  hiding  him  within  his  sins  with 
drawn. 

Ah,  Nature,  thou  art  strange  but  just ! 
Things  live,  then  die; 

We  have  an  imitation  of  this  spoken-plant 

Will  each  succeeding  era  bring  before  His  eye 

A  changing  life  till  meet  in  form  to  dwell  on 
high? 

No,  blessed  thought,  "we"  trivial  types  of 
then  forgotten  age 

Have  been  enrolled  upon  the  Revelation- 
promised  page. 


A   NAME 

\17E  often  hear  a  name 

Like  one  on  Memory's  page, 
That  prints  the  scene  the  same 
As  happed  in  younger  age. 

'T  is  but  a  name,  but  bears 

To  mind  a  lost,  loved  face; 
One  who  that  same  name  wears 

That  years  cannot  erase. 

'T  was  but  a  name,  but  bound 
By  Memory's  power  it  grows, 

And  each  succeeding  feeling  's  drowned 
As  clearer  visions  rose. 

We  cannot  e'er  forget 

The  past,  for  Memory  stays 

When  these  known  names  are  met 
And  sings  of  yesterdays. 


235 


VOICES 

I   IKE  wood-dove  calling  to  its  mate 

Just  when  the  day  is  dying, 
Resistless  sounds  that  cannot  wait 
I  hear  the  loved  ones  calling. 

Sound  softened  by  the  distance  great, 
So  far  and  yet  so  near  me. 

When  eve  sets  forth  her  quiet  state, 
I  hear  the  tones  so  dreamy. 

The  phantoms  of  a  dream  held  fast 

And  wrapped  in  reality ; 
Niobe-like  to  forms  that  last, 

But  tears  mar  not  their  beauty. 

The  voices  of  departed  call 
From  favored  place  in  glory, 

And  't  is  not  such  a  wide,  wide  wall 
That  separates  them  from  me. 

Call  on,  Oh  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Your  hopeful  yearned-for  wooing, 

For  soon  I  '11  turn  my  weary  feet 
To  where  the  saints  are  calling. 


236 


SONNETS 


237 


FRIENDSHIP 

'"TO  thee,  love's  younger  sister,   I  would 

sing, 
To     conquering     charms    acknowledgment 

would  bring. 

A  junior  sister  but  in  years,  in  grace 
And  strength  superior  may  be.     Thy  face 
When    sweet    with    smiles    makes    life    no 

troubled  task, 

But  darkened  by  a  frown,  unusual  mask, 
Remove  thy  retinue,  the  world  grows  drear, 
The  days  are  lonesome,  long,  each  tick  a 

tear. 
To  soothe  the  soul  of  man  thou  'st  varied 

forms: — 
The  friends  we  form  'mong  creatures  lower 

scaled ; 

With  Nature  that  with  heredity  conforms; 
And    man    to    man,    would    that    it    never 

paled ! 

And  last  within  thy  graces  glorified, 
He,  dearest  Friend,  who  loving  for  us  died. 
239 


240  Friendship 

We  love  to  listen  to  a  woodland  bard 
Whose  songs,  though  sung  in  stifling  city's 

heat, 

Transpose   and   blunt   our  senses    trouble- 
scarred, 

And  minds  oft  made  extemporaneous  feet 
Lead  to  the  restful  shade  at  Nature's  side ; 
Whose  notes,  though  plaintive  piped  from 

prison  cell, 

Speak  us  of  Freedom  in  the  forests  wide. 
Blest  bird,  trill  on  your  lays  that  subtily  tell 
Our   soul   to   cease   its    chafing,    cheerfully 

wait. 
The  squirrel  that 's  schooled  in  city  way  and 

trait, 

Around  its  model  ferris-circle  flies, 
Delights  and  draws  the  laughter  to  our  eyes. 
Our  forest  friends  are  these,  by  common  tie 
Of  Nature-kin  and  common  home  on  high. 

What  one  with  smallest  trace  of  human  heart 
That  loves  not  Nature's  quiet  scenery, 
The  solitary  spots  in  unaltered  art 
Of  God?     His  only  gardens  yet  unmarred? 
Whose   mossy   mantled    trees    not    cut    or 

charred 

Have  yet  a  semblance  of  a  restful  shade ; 
And  oasis  dear  in  desert  man  has  made. 


Friendship  241 

If  such  is  found,  that  being  's  not  a  man, 
But  offspring  of  a  mad,  misguided  throng, 
A  member  of  the  mirage-led  caravan, 
Forgetting  Him  who  guides.     The  poet's 

song 

The  sayings  of  a  seer  seek  inspiration  here. 
'T   is   here   that   we   can    found    friendship 

supreme 
With  simple  piety  for  common  theme. 

For  friendship's  law  is  some  strong  mutual 

bond 

Of  sympathy,  where  she  in  sight  of  both 
May  discover  all  her  charms.     And  by  the 

bond 

Of  natural  history  hath  she  linked  my  heart 
To    one   who   unknown   hath  inspired  this 

lay; 

This  tiny  tribute  work  of  my  poor  art, 
A  trial  to  lay  materially  a  spray 
Of  laurel  in  his  now  all-woven  crown. 
But  words  are  dew-drops  'fore  the  mind's 

great  sun 

And  all  my  similes  ashamed  bow  down 
Before  my  love  untold.     O  honored  one, 
I  pardon  pray,  but  with  me  sings  the  choir 
Of  Nature's  children,  lovers  all  of  thee, 
And  I,  like  them,  sing  for  a  word  from  thee ! 

16 


242  Friendship 

Thou  traveller,  whose  untiring  foot  is  strange 
To  scarce  a  strand,  and  named  in  native  land 
With  love,  respect,  might  I  my  standing 

change 
And  call  thee  friend?     Except  because  my 

mind 
Is  oft  with  thee?     In   fame  the  difference 

seems 

To  make  me  as  an  Afric  sprite,  first  known 
By   thee.     And   yet    because   her   reserved 

beams 

Shine  not  for  me,  shall  you  from  much- 
sought  throne 

Of  friendship  banish  me?    Aside  from  spur 
Of  golden  glory  thou  'st  an  accolade 
Of    personal    virtue   that   would   win   thee 

"Sir." 
Unsheath  your  sword  of  Truth,  that  polished 

blade 
Unsoiled   by   rust,   and   thou,   O    Nature's 

knight, 
Receive  me  in  your  train  at  your  side  to  fight. 

Thou  Savior,  Prince  of  Peace,  and  Wonder 
ful, 

The  nearest  name  we  give  thee,  Lord,  is 
Friend ; 

The  One  who  raging  storms  of  soul  can  lull, 


Friendship  243 

And  loved  advice  in  troubled  times  can  lend ; 
Who  shares  the  burdens  of  a  weary  life, 
Stands  at  my  side  where  sounds  the  thickest 

strife. 
'T  is  here  that  Friendship,  trained  by  loving 

man, 

All  glorified  like  Launfal's  leper  stands 
And,  bathed  in  pure  celestial  light,  from  man 
A  sweeter,  more  consistent  life  demands. 
And  God,  as  doth  the  earthly  friendship, 

asks 

But  love  given  in  return  for  love.     Make  me, 
O  Lord,  to  work  within  our  mutual  tasks, 
A  better  and  a  fitter  friend  to  Thee. 


FUTURITY 

I   OFT  withdraw  apart  from  noisy  world 
To   reap   the   joys    reflection-sown;    to 

earled 
Estate  in  Nature's  realm,  the  place  where 

peace 

In  only  kingdom  dwells ;  there  noises  cease, 
There  chaos  is  unknown.     Since  knight  by 

love 

And  work,  no  beauty  from  mine  eyes  is  hid. 
These   moments    bathed   in   bliss   like  that 

above; 

At  sunset  wonder  what  is  buried  'mid 
Those  golden  bars,  what  beams  my  life  to 

light 
In    future   time.      Those   yellow   bands   so 

bright 
Are  signs  of  joy ;  what  means  the  mingling 

red? 
Those   clouds   so    often   drown   the  happy 

dyes. 

My  hopes  increased  or  lost  as  fear  is  fed, 
Thus  drawn  by  silent  language  of  the  skies. 
244 


Futurity  245 

Beyond  to-morrow's  fate,  if  that 's  foretold, 
What  then  ?   The  farther  side  of  those  bright 

bars 

What  sort  of  scene  lies  lost  to  visions,  cold 
And  weak  from  straining  toward  the  future 

time? 
And  must  I  stroll  'long  Stygian  banks,  a 

shade? 
Or  what  is  worse,  come  back,  the  theories 

made, 
To  haunt  the  homes  we  pretence  made  to 

leave? 

Ah  no !     There  is  a  country  far  more  fair 
Than  human    minds    conception    could    re 
ceive. 
And  Death  's  the  dense  and  thorny  path,  a 

lair 
Of  beasts  that,  formed  by  fear,  guard  well 

the  way ; 
In  a  prairie   lies   this   path ;   that  prairie 's 

Life. 

The  rest  that  terminates  the  working-day 
Must  come  after  desert  drear  and  path  of 

strife. 

The  evening  church -bells  call  me  from  my 

dreams, 
But  like  the  ocean  when  its  storm  is  past, 


246  Futurity 

The  billows  angry  break  though  gale  is  gone ; 

The  action  's  ceased  though  substances  long 
last. 

The  light  of  sunset  shows  beyond  the  brake ; 

The  path  of  death  grows  dim.  My  task  to 
day : — 

To  fit  me  for  that  final  fight,  forsake 

The  thought  of  fears.  The  lode-stone  of  my 
way 

Is  mental  sight  of  city  in  the  sky, 

Where  mansions  past  the  power  of  mortal 
eye 

Our  God  has  gone  to  seek.  I  'm  ne'er  so 
lost 

In  this  world's  work,  where  one  's  confusing 
tossed 

From  care  to  care,  as  to  forget  these  hours 

That,  lived  apart,  taste  of  futurity. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

'T'HOU    sacred    burial-urn   given    to    the 
*       famed, 
What  world-known  men  could  in  thy  vaults 

be  named ! 
An  air  of  awe  fills  soul  with  graver  thought 

than  wont 

When  steeped  in  thy  silence  all  sublime ; 
Unbroken  'cept  by  desecrating  taunt 
Of  noisy  feet  that  strike  in  poorest  rhyme 
Upon  thy  hollow-sounding,  well-worn  stones, 
Subtending  cells  that  seal  immortal  souls. 
Beneath  thy  dome  great  men  made  greater 

scenes, 
Here  men  were  crowned  as  kings  in  former 

day, 
Now,  now  they  all  are  senseless,  worthless 

clay. 

Thou  tellest  in  trembling  tones  and  daily  toll 
That  fame  of  Heaven  not  fame  of  earth  's  our 

goal. 


247 


CHILDREN 

,  how  I  love  the  darling  little  ones, 
The   only   hearts  of   honor,   souls  of 

truth ! 

In  this  light-lacking  world,  light-bearing  suns 
That  hold  the  drear  discouragment  aloof. 
When  quiet  evening  brings  the  hour  of  rest 
We  gather  round  the  hearth  to  hear  their 

song 

With  artless  non-dissembled  wisdom  blessed ; 
We  smile  encouragement,  listen  hours  long. 
The  witty  ways  they  have  describing  things 
And  emphasize  with  gestures  more  than 

sweet ; 

Or  struggling  to  our  laps,  long  talk  to  us, 
Though  truly  nothing  's  said,  they  're  so 

discreet, 
They  mean  so   much.     My  thought   can't 

form  in  art, 
But  prayers  for  little  folk  e'er  fill  my  heart. 


248 


WOMAN 

T  WAS  about  to  ask  what  woman  is, 

Then  I  thought  of  mother  dear  and  love 

lisped  out 

A  definition  which  words  can't  write. 
' '  Within  her  tongue  the  law  of  kindness  lies, ' ' 
Says  Holy  Book.     This  law  with  loving  light 
Makes  world  a  brighter  sphere  to  our  tired 

eyes; 

Her  smile  illumes  our  souls  and  clearer  skies 
Of  character  thus  formed  before  us  rise. 
Her  careful  touch  in  trimming  blessed  nooks 
Makes  paradise  from  places  once  so  drear. 
To  her  for  help  when  tired  we  turn  our  looks, 
She  points  to   Him  and  helps  to  bring  us 

near. 
The  woman  of  this  world  its  ways  makes 

bright, 
Without,  poor  man  could  find  no  leading 

light. 


249 


MILTON 

ARTH  moans  a  monody,  for  Earth  hath 

lost 

The   master    minds    that    sang   her    songs 
sublime. 

0  mighty  Muse,  would  I  on  sorrow's  frost 
Could   trace   with    my   too    bashful   finger 

rhyme 
To  lay  the  suited  laurel  at  their  feet ! 

1  seek  in  every  known  poetic  clime, 

I  search  through  Nature's  scrolls,  a  tribute 

meet; 

Along  the  shore  I  stroll  in  tempest  time, 
And   view   the  weeded    wrecks,    sea-books, 

with  awe ; 

To  learn  if  Lycidas  still  lies  enchained 
By  jealous  Neptune's  wrath.     I  nearer  draw 
To  thee,  who  mourn 'st  a  friend  on  briny 

bier, 
While    standing   where    the    ocean's    salty 

tear, 
Sobs  to  me  of  those  /  've  laid  on  self-same 

bier. 

250 


Milton  251 

The    sage    cathedrals   crowned   with   pious 

awes, 

With  ivy-labelled  learned  walls,  outlaws 
Of  frivolous  world  for  Puritanic  faith ; 
Here  too  at  Inspiration's  sacred  shrine 
I  seek  the  virgin  vows,  untainted,  pure. 
Once  more  that  organ  solemn  and  divine, 
So  deified  by  thy  deathless  rhymed  crown, 
Reluctant  tunes  its  lofty  themes  for  one 
Like  me,  but  vain  and  groundless  fear,  a  pun, 
To  think  that  I  could  grasp,  engrave,  such 

notes. 

I  strain  to  catch  the  melody  that  floats 
Like  thirsting  Tantalus'  tide,  comes  but  to 

hide 
Itself  from  reach.      Thus  Munin,  muse  of 

memory, 
Deigns  not  give  me  one  worthy  word  for 

thee. 

By  Nature,  whom  you  loved  and  knowing 

read 

So  well,  thy  praises  are  most  sweetly  said. 
The  tidet  with  touch  well  suited  to  a  lute 
Strikes  masques  from  sedges  near  the  shore ; 
The  wind,  grown  tender  in  the  west,  finds  flute 
In   reeds,    the   Pandean-pipes   of    Nature's 

corps, 


252  Milton 

To  play  the  pastoral  part  so  loved  by  thee. 
But  Tacita,  of  silence  god,  dark  frowns 
On  me,  the  only  voiceless  Reed ;  from  me 
Withholds  the  telling  of  my  debt  unpaid. 
Unchecked  by  turbulous  times  that  laid 
Distracting  hands  on  thee,  and  /  still  mute ! 
You  helped  to  move  the  tide  that  Cromwell 

made, 
But  still  had  time  to  find  Fame's  modest  lute. 

As  swimmer,  in  a  tiring  tide,  seeks  rest 
By  ceasing  efforts,  floats,  so  thou  didst  wrest 
From  pressing  cares  a  time  to  commune 
With  holier  themes  than  those  that  furnished 

tune 

For  broken  march  thy  century  cared  to  tread. 
And  last  so  tired  of  ceaseless  strife  thy  soul 
Refused  to  share  the  light  that  chideless  shed 
It&  beams  upon  chaotic  scenes;  then  stole, 
Though  of  the  world,  to  thoughts  that  dwell 

beyond : 
With  rhymed  feet,  left  prints  on  sands  of 

time 

That  we  may  follow  and  regain,  if  lost, 
The  path  that  leads  to  paradise.     Sublime 
The  life  that   ceases   not   with   death,  but 

reigns 
Above,  and  for  our  sake  here  too  remains. 


FAREWELL 

\17HEN    parting  's   near,    and    farewells 
*"      must  be  said 
The  tongue  is  still,  't  is  time  the  heart  must 

hum. 

The  mouth  is  full  of  words  by  feeling  fed, 
But  speech,  as  stage-struck,  fails  the  hour, 

is  dumb. 

I  now  depart  in  Science's  sake  to  seek 
In   foreign    fields   what    Nature   may   have 

stored. 
A  farewell  floats  on  every  bay,  and  brook, 

and  creek, 
I  love  them  well,  and  know  each  sanded 

ford. 

I  know  the  tread  of  tides  that  tireless  go 
And   come.     Now   ripples    on    the   brooks 

seem  timed 
And  sob  their  tunes  in  measures  set  and 

slow. 
The   saddened    reeds    to    breeze   obeisance 

bow, 

253 


254  Farewell 

And  he  so  kind,   though  kingly  powered, 

with  rhymed 
Though  mournful  voice  replies, — "  We  lose 

a  friend,  farewell." 

The  woods,  so  wrapped  in  silence  that  my 

ears 
Seem  filled  with  deafening  sound,  produced 

by  thoughts 
That  throb,   expression  seek.      It  may  be 

years 

Before  again  I  wander  through  these  woods. 
The  willows,  weeping,  whisper  to  the  wind, 
The  laurel  lisps  an  "Au  Revoir  "  of  love; 
"  Auf  Wiedersehen "   's    by    the    hemlock 

signed, 

That  stoic  of  the  wood.  The  clouds  above 
Compete  with  earth  to  form  the  richest  view ; 
And  this  I  soon  must  leave  for  other  climes. 
Where  muses  may  thereon  more  beauty 

strew ; 
But  things  we  know  and  love  are  wrapped  in 

rhymes 
That   strangers  do   not   have;   this   is  the 

theme, 
The  rhythm  that  makes  life  a  tranquil  stream. 


WHAT  A   POEM   IS 

OONATAS  of  the  bulbul  merged  in  stone, 
**•*     Composed,   and  after  statued,  bathed 

in  tears 

Niobe-like.     Each  line  a  fibre  flown 
From  Circe's  mantle ;  smile-dissembled  jeers ; 
A  superficial  jest  in  world  of  woe 
By  one  who  sneers  because  once  thought  it 

so. 

False  fetters  carved  by  poets  from  the  gold 
Of  Past,  that  ingot-burdened  ship  deep  sunk 
In  sea  of  Now,  that  loosen  when  they  're 
told. 

The  tender  thread  that  leads  material  man 
From  labyrinth,   with   present  cares   when 

drunk, 
To  spirit  happiness  where  he  once  ran. 


255 


FICKLE  GOLD 

I  GAZED  upon  the  ocean's  golden  strand 
*     And  thought, — how  like  my  sweetheart's 

hair  that  sand. 
And  lo!     E'en  as  I  watched  each  wave  that 

came 
Caressed  it  lovingly,  yet  drew  no  blame ! 

And  in  the  field  near-by  each  flower  upheld 
Its  yellow  tresses  for  each  bee  to  kiss ; 
Each  golden  sunbeam   first  for  that,  then 

this, 
Had   glances  sweet,  from  none  were  they 

withheld. 

I  sadly  turned  away  and  hastened  home, 
But  confident  and  boastful  that  my  Love 
Allowed  her  true  affections  ne'er  to  roam. 

Alas,  my  gold,  like  wreck-strewn  ingot-ore, 

Inviting  strangers  beckoning  above, 

Lay  strewn  upon  the  smiles  of  coral  floor ! 


256 


A  GLIMPSE   OF   PARADISE   BUT 
BREEDS   DESIRE 


kiss>  my  Love,  before  I  sail  away 
Where  I  shall  see  no  love  for  many 
a  day." 

She  was  demure,  reluctantly  she  gave, 
But  'gainst  a  lover's  bid  what  wish  can  save? 

'T  was  many  years  before  he  sought  his  own, 
But  found  her  lips  were  not  for  him  alone; 
Ah  worse,  were  mart  for  loveless  kisses  too, 
And  yet  he  knew  not  whence  this  coldness 
grew. 

While  wandering  disconsolate  along 

He  met  a  sage  who  stopped  and  heard  his 

wrong  : 
"  'T  was  bad  that  kiss  of  long  ago  to  sue; 

If  once  a  bee  to  knowledge  kiss  a  flower, 
Unless  he  soon  return  to  claim  his  dower 
The  wish  can't  wait,  another  gets  his  due." 


257 


"THE   SPARROW" 

(Theme  :  The  French  for  "  the  sparrow",  le  moineau, 
being  of  two  roots,  literally  meaning  "little  monk" — so 
named  from  his  gray  jacket.) 

f~\  MIDGET  monk  of  sylvan  monastery, 
^-^     Thou  gray-gowned  friar,  e'er  breathing 

benisons 
O'er  rosary  beads  that  dew  hangs  o'er  the 

tree, 
Sing,   sing  to  me!      And  severing  secret's 

string 

Repeat  confessions  that  the  leaves  confide; 
We  '11  then  compare  and  know  if  these  and 

those 

By  insects  chirped  do  ever  coincide. 
Sequestered  from  this  sphere  of  sin  and  woes, 
In  heaven's  free  air  polluted,  poisoned  not, 
Sing,   sing  and  lift  my  soul  to  paths  you 

tread ; 

Make,  make  my  life  as  thine  sublimest  sign, 
Of  virgin  purity.     And  let  my  life  e'er  be 
As  it  has  been ;  let  naught  seduce  e'er  me 
Where  long  I  've  trod  together  with  my 

God. 


258 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW 

'"THE    driving-wheels    of    time,    together 

joined 

By  unromantic  link  "To-day," — they  roll 
Unceasing   on   their    backward    course    for 

aye 

But  ne'er  reverse  respective  place.     I  fly 
To  former  one  to  shape  my  simple  rhyme ; 
Two  tales  are  told  by  past  and  future  time ; 
The   one   is   marked    with   many  sorrowed 

prints, 
The  other  bright  with  golden  dreams.     But 

since 
'T  is  human  law  to  seek  what  brings  most 

pain, 
To  dwell  on  deeds  that  mark  the  saddest 

year, 
Our  songs,  our  thoughts,  are  mostly  turned 

again 

To  past  that  from  its  weary  toils  repose 
Hath  won,  but  does  not  gain.     Then,  here 

and  there 
Joys  show  that  far  outshine  to-morrow's. 

259 


260   Yesterday  and  To-Morrow 

That  repetition  now  deny ;  devoid 

Of  faces  so  familiar  to  our  hearts, 

Thus  in  the  joys  that  mark  to-day  a  void  is 

left. 

We  long  to  stay  the  wheels  of  time, 
To  start  them  o'er  a  more  consistent  course, 
For  in  the  sweetness  of  the  past  the  rhyme 
Is  sometimes  marred.     From  chances,  long 

lost,  learn 
What  's   not   but   might   have   been.     We 

scarce  endorse 
All  parts  we  played  in  past;   but  looking, 

turn 

To  memory's  mirror,  live  once  more  the  day 
When  Christ    commander  of  our  lives   we 

chose, — 

And  now  as  earthly  day  draws  to  a  close, 
The  only  deed  we  do  not  e'er  regret, 
The  only  light  in  day  whose  sun  is  set. 

How  oft  we   long  to  stay  Time's  endless 

chain, 

A  retrospect  to  gain ;  for  morrows  come 
Are  made  to-days!     We,  wandering  down 

Life's  lane, 

Behold  the  future  just  ahead,  like  some 
Our  walks  on   common  roads  when  some 

slow  stage 


Yesterday  and  To-Morrow   261 

Goes  laboring  just  in  front,  nor  leaves  nor 

nears. 
Time  grows  not  tired ;  not  so  't  is  with  our 

years ; 

Soon  all  will  be  as  yesterdays  on  earth; 
We  '11  slip  the  link  that  binds,  to-morrow 

gain, 
And  live  with  Time  an  endless  life.     The 

worth 
Of  Now  we  count  but  naught  compared  with 

Then. 
We  could  not   place  our  shoulders  to  the 

wheel 

If  we  had  not  this  goal  in  view.     Our  work 
To-day  is  but  to  long  and  toward  to-morrow 

steal. 


WALES 

DOUGH  land  of  rocks,  I  love  thy  moun- 

*^     tain  homes, 

Where  one  can  feel  the  freedom  in  the  air. 

Give  me  thy  simple,  sturdy  countrymen ! 

I  wandered  where  I  would,  a  home  was  there ; 

And  in  thy  wilds,  from  house  and  town 
away, 

There  danger  lurks,  but  how  those  times 
loved  I ! 

The  stirring  spirit  moves  me  to  this  day. 

Those  times !  We  laughed  at  life  and  chal 
lenge  cry 

To  death.  We  nothing  feared,  't  is  of  the 
land. 

Within  thy  cliff-formed  walls,  but  wildness 
dwells ; 

The  hardy  hawk  and  gull  are  oft  alone, 

For  days  the  only  sight  of  life,  the  cells 

Wave-worried  from  the  cliffs  the  only  bed. 

I  found  your  solitude  with  fear  ne'er  wed. 


262 


FRANCE 

T"HOU  flowered  land,  my  fancy  sings  to  me 
Of  thee  on  pleasure  bent.     You  may 

be  right; 
Some  think  this  world  a  playground  built 

for  man, 
Some  think  not  so.     But  viewed  in  Beauty's 

light, 

Thou,  closely  copied  Daphne  of  our  day, 
Art  scion  of  all  that  touches  minds  of  art. 
Thou  once  held  school  throughout  the  earth, 

to  teach 
Thine  unmatched  laws  of  loveliness.     Nor 

wrapped 

Within  thyself,  to  ends  of  earth  dost  reach 
The  cultured  customs,  from  which  our  ways 

are  mapped. 
Thou  'rt  more  like  maid  of  fifteen  summers, 

age 
Than  like  the  thoughtful,  action-weighing 

sage; 

Spends  time  admiring  features  fair  to  shirk 
The  plain  but  stronger  needs  of  household 

work. 


263 


LIFE 

r\EAR  Lord,  who  gavest  and  will  take 
*-^     away, 

A  pure  life  I  have  tried  to  live  with  Thee ; 
Grateful,  what  though  not  joy  hath  held  full 

sway, 

Thou  gavest  that  satisfies  and  comforts  me. 
A  life  that  's  tinged  with  sadness  sounds 

more  sweet : 
The  blocks   of   marble  purest   white  ne'er 

meet 
Our  fancy  like  the  ones  with  faint  drawn 

lines 
Of  blue  and  red.     "Then  what  is  life  ?  "  we 

hear, 
"A  wait  for  death"?    Ah  no!     These  sad 

confines 

Are  just  to  prove,  not  what  we  seem,  but  are. 
But  't  is  a  wait  for  death  and  life  beyond ; 
We  wait  the  Heavenly   Usher's  admitting 

wand. 
A  life   reserved,    unknown,  with   saddened 

tone, 
Can   be   more  good  than   one   in  joy  and 

known. 


364 


DANTE 

\I7HERE  has  the  world  an  architect  of 
* "      rhyme 

More  careful  in  his  measurements  and  time? 
We  read,  and  before  our  admiring  mind 
Each  story  grows,  each  sculptured  arch  de 
fined, 

The  templed  themes  sublime  cathedrals  rise. 
But  admiration  's  not  confined  to  size, 
For  art-embroidered  skilfully  on  these  walls 
Of  thought,  the  massive  Norman  Style  in 

verse, 

Nice  arabesque  in  pleasant  contrast  falls, 
And  lessons  oft  so  dissonant  and  terse 
Escape  in  music  from  these  walls ;  sublime 
As  from  cathedral  choirs  are  they.     Words 

climb 

By  aid  of  his  pen,  and  peerless  form  in  art, 
Like  church-mosacis,  pictured  texts  impart. 


265 


BOTANY 

TO   O.    M.    E. 

"IT  IS  not  to  know  the  tongue-entangling 

terms, 
To  learn  from  lexicon  the  Latin  class  and 

name; 
The  books  can't  tell  how  rootlets  work  and 

worm 
To  wend  their  way  to  weeds  and  flowers. 

The  same 

Cannot  explain  as  can  our  eyes,  how  leaves 
From  fairy  Chlorophyll  they  gain  a  gown 
And    steal   with    modest    bashfulness    like 

thieves 

Into  the  light ;  and  startled  by  the  glare 
Of  earth,  then  slower  form  the  flowers  fair. 
My  too  prosaic  pen  can't  paint  aright 
The  happy  hours,  not  bending  o'er  a  book, 
But   strolling  through  the  natural  gardens 

bright, 
The   woods   where  beauty  nestles  in  each 

nook, 
Where  flowers  flash  in  heaven-born  hues  be- 

dight. 


266 


MELANCHOLY 

'T'HAT  I  am  melancholy,  say  not  so, 

Because  my  mind  to  meditation  tends, 
Because  I  'm  no  participant  in  show 
And  folly  that  half  the  world's  sky  subtends. 
Grave  meditation  knows  no  kin  to  grief, 
The  weeping  sage  was  given  to  meditate, 
But  converses  are  n't  always  true.     Belief 
That  cloaks  all  thought  in  moody  sable  gown 
Is  far  unworthy  of  enlightened  times. 
That   noble  face,  though  furrowed  with   a 

frown, 

The  tutelary  tunic  that  defends 
'Gainst  gay  temptation's  taint,  with  sightless 

eyes 

That  yearned  to  see  their  master's  prodigy, 
Our  greatest  song,  who  calls  morose  he  lies. 

If  themes  like  these  made  mighty  Milton 
grave, 

Though  could  not  cloud  his  hopeful,  cheer 
ful  mien, 

These  reachless,  lofty  topics  that  I  crave 
267 


268  Melancholy 

And  count  me  wise  if  I  can  rightly  glean 
But   coarsest   chaff   from   golden  grains  of 

fame, 

Can  these  sit  lightly  on  my  laboring  brow? 
The  sombre  suit  of  lark  holds  happiest  soul, 
Whose  lowliness  forbids  the  usual  bough, 
Yet  in  solitude  of  dawning  day  he  stole 
His  entire  being  gave  its  homage  meet 
To  Him  who  bids  us  pray  in  quietness. 
The  inner  being  can  have  sweetest  peace 
Beneath  the  soberest  garb ;  the  dear  caress 
Of  God  is  lost  when  thoughtful  communes 

cease. 


THE  ANT 

'THOU  tiny,  tireless  toiler  of  the  earth, 

For  one  iota  of  that  patience  blest 
I  pray.     The  will  to  do  a  work  is  worth 
A  doubled  power  to  finish  it.     The  rest 
He  takes  is  sweeter  in  repose  aware 
The  work  to-day  is  done;  to-morrow's  task 
Is  never  burdened  with  the  harrowing  care 
Of  uncompleted  yesterdays.     I  'd  ask, 
But  thoughts  divided  are,  whether  the  ant 
Is  sensible  to  sound,  the  secret  strange 
That  hides  the  natural  bent  and  binds  his 

heart 

Within    his   work, — a    hundred    times    de 
stroyed, 

But  ever  ready  he  anew  to  start, 
Though  thwarted  oft  and  oft,  he  's  ne'er  an 
noyed. 


269 


MY   BOOKS 

""THOSE  nooks  where  man  inspired  by 
Nature  lays 

His  notes  from  her;  those  imitation  worlds 

Where  Nature  checked  in  natural  course  de 
lays, 

Presents  each  varied  phase  for  study's  sake. 

Devoid  of  usual  rapid  change,  provide 

For  leisure  lessons,  thus  more  certain  make. 

The  stage  where  men  of  centuries  else  for 
got, 

The  drops  to  form  the  tide,  that  eddying 
churns 

And  ceaseless  sweeps  exhausted  centuries 
'way, 

React  their  lives.  The  school  wherein  one 
learns 

Mistakes  that  men  have  made,  to  light  the 
way 

And  show  the  stones  whereon  our  feet  would 
dash; 

The  thoughts  transferred  from  God  to  each 
man's  mind, 

Apostles  in  disguise ;  knowledge  refined. 


SOLITUDE 

A  T  timed  intervals,  't  is  right  that  man 

Should  leave  degenerating  noisy  clan, 
Whose   actions,    thoughts,    and   words    are 

surface-sown, 

And  can  endure  but  little  stress  when  grown ; 
To  hold  commune  with  promptings  of  the 

soul, 

Not  'neath  Misanthropy's  disgraceful  flag, 
No  thinker  sane  can  serve  that  sieve-like  rag, 
Insignia  of  deserters  from  the  rank 
Of  Meditation's  school.     On  some  lone  bank 
To  sit  and  in  abeyance  hold  the  tide 
Of  swirling,  rushing  life,  and  stay  it  still 
While  trying  to  smoothe  out  its  wrinkled 

side 

And  make  it  more  a  peaceful,  stormless  rill ; 
To  learn  from  thine  own  self  alone  His  will. 


271 


BEN   NEVIS,   SCOTLAND 

\\  7 HEN  Mother  Nature  planned  and  made 

this  sphere 

She  fashioned  parts  to  love  of  art  appeal ; 
She  formed  those  parts  which  by  sublimest 

fear 
Strike    senses    dumb,    by    awful    grandeur 

shown. 
Deep  down  within  the  earth  where  thou  wert 

born 
There  Nature  ground  and  fused  thy  granite 

heart ; 
When  thou  wert  done  't  was  like  a  chick 

unborn 

Within  the  egg.     Then  Nature  gave  a  start, 
Affrighted    shook    herself,    and    crumbling 

crust 
Up  through  her  surface-shell  thee  towering 

thrust. 

A  glorious  book,  Geology,  thou  art, 
To  hold  such  gems  as  Nevis  is.     By  thee 
My  thought   was   led    in   joy  to    Nature's 

heart, 
May  many  more  be  helped  as  thou  helped 

me! 


272 


MY  JONATHAN 

A  T  Water-Witch  a  dear  home  nestles  there, 
**•     Near  hidden  by  those  Nature-gardened 

hills 

All  green,  while  chorused  round  that  home 
stead  fair 

The  thrush  and  bobolink  contest  the  rills. 
There  in  that  scene  that  nestles  near  to  God 
A    friend    resides, — a    friend    in    strongest 

sense, 

In  dearest  sense,  the  world  hath  cognizance. 
How  oft  those  forest  aisles  with  him  I  've 

trod, 

In  Moses'  altar  of  the  wilderness; 
And  from  the  sermons  there  in  simple  stress, 
We  wandered  hand  in  hand  to  altar-rail 
Within  the  Church  of  God !     And  what  avail 
That  noble  character  upon  my  ways, 
How  often  near  the  fallen  to  cheer  and  raise ! 


18 

273 


THE   FARMER 

'THOU  simple  soul,  my  model  of  a  man, 
In   careful   scale   of   life   does  Nature 

place 

Thee  lower  for  lack  of  linguistry?     Or  can 
Thy  scorn  of  raiment  rich  discount  thy  race, 
Ungilded  with  adornments  much  in  use, 
That  worse  than  worthless  are?     So  simple 

art 

Thou  that  no  sooner  born  of  brain  than  told, 
No  need  to  act  a  part  condemned  by  heart. 
Unlearned  except  in  lore  the  fields  unfold 
The  sweet  phenomena  of  God.     Indeed 
The  Lord  speaks  oft  of  farmers  in  His  Law; 
The  lessons  indirectly  taught  we  read 
From  similes  there  drawn  from  out  the  soil. 
Blest  be  thy  simple  upward-tending  toil. 


274 


THE  WISTARIA 

\X7OUND  round  the  trunk  that  scarce  in- 
*  *       vites  it  there, 

But  'chanted  by  ambrosial  charms  that  snare ; 
It  snake-like  nestles  in  the  coils  subdued, 
Clings     lavender-coned     Wistaria     honey- 
dewed. 

And  bees  so  surfeit  with  the  sweet  by  score 
Drop  Roman-fete-like  down ;  or  as  Hessian 

corps, 

Enraptured  by  the  feast,  unfrightened  fall 
At  those  so  artful  winged  foes'  charge  call. 
While  thousands  sense-sunk  in  the  perfumed 

air 

That  virtued  steals  e'en  our  stoic  minds 
Go  humming  paeans  o'er  the  cup,  aware 
Not  that  the  sweet,  in  smallest  tastes,  but 

blinds 

The  bitter  held  in  all  intemperate  draughts. 
It  satiates  e'en  spring,  these  Wistaria  wafts. 


275 


MY   MOODS 

DISCOURAGEMENT 

DASS  from  me,  mournful  mood,  must  I 

*•       endure 

The  pangs  of  pain,  that  memory  fills  my 

mind! 

Those  solemn,   awful  somethings  that  im 
mure 

My  soul  in  sadness,  and  so  tightly  bind 
All  hope,  though  she  stands  knocking  at  my 

heart, 
My  mind,  so   wrapped   in    Sadness'  walls, 

can't  hear. 
Creation   seems   to   mock,   and  maddening 

dart 

A  cynic's  sneer,  as  all-triumphant  Fear 
Possession  takes  and  holds  me  in  her  grasp. 
'T  is   now   that   life  is   harder  borne  than 

death. 
The  falling  Hope  looks  round  for  aught  to 

clasp ; 

Discouragement  with  laugh,  all  demon-like, 
276 


My  Moods  277 

Thrusts  taunting  back  the  pleading  hands  of 

Hope; 
She  too  by  law  of  environment  must  mope. 

CYNICISM 

What  now,  another  force  my  faith  attacks! 
The  mind,  in  fear,  within  itself  contracts, 
And  objects  viewed  with  less  capacity 
Appeal  less  strong.     The  eyes  now  pitying 

see 
(They  're  servants  of  the  mind)  the  work  of 

man, 

Forever  forging  but  to  make  his  coffin-plate, 
The  serious  looks,  while  striving  hard, 
And  still  there  's  nothing  done;  he  feeds  but 

Fate; 

All  this  makes  music  to  my  mirth. 
Diogenes,  the  wisest  of  the  wise, 
Was  drawn  disciple  of  this  faith,  the  worth 
Of  man's  endeavors  taught  as  naught. 
These  moods  that  mar  our  life  us  servants 

make! 


FROM  THE  KETTLE 
ON  THE  CRANE 


279 


FROM  THE  KETTLE  ON  THE  CRANE 

A 17 HEN   the   chill   of  December   invades 
*  *       every  nook, 
When  the  dusk  of  the  twilight  taboos  every 

book, 
Round  the  open  fireplace  that  contains  half 

the  room, 
Shedding     sunset-like    glow    through    the 

deepening  gloom, 

Comes  the  family  confidingly  gathering  near, 
Like  the  idle  but  still  weary  cattle  appear 
At  the  home-bar  of  rest  when  the  sun  gilds 

the  west. 

Enlightening  the  hour  with  song  or  with  tale, 
Inspiring  the  big,  but  the  little  folks  quail 
At  the  stories  of  war  that  the  grand'ther 

recalls 
As  he  hears  cannonading  from  the  fireplace's 

walls ; 

Or  after  the  youngsters  are  all  tucked  away 
And  the  council  consists  but  of  heads  old 

and  gray, 

281 


282    The  Kettle  on  the  Crane 


Then  the  quiet  ensues,  each  his  own  thought 

construes. 

Then  the  fire  as  an  oracle  greedily  is  sought, 
And  each  ember  reminds  of  some  scene  that 

has  passed ; 
To   our  minds  how  these  memories  come 

trooping  so  fast ! 

From  the  kettle  crane-hung  charms  are  brew 
ing  for  me, 
But   unlike    Macbeth 's   omens   from   weird 

sisters  three, 
I  can  spell  but  of  Past,  future  dreams  now 

but  flee, 
Like  the  mists  that  are  made  by  the  caldron 

I  see 
But  to  vanish  in  air.     While  it  's  brewing  it 

sings 

Like  the  bubbling  chuckle  of  hillside  springs 
Or  the  purling  of  meadow-brooks  o'er  mossy 

rocks, 
And  their  cool  tempting  fords  with  the  calm 

wading  flocks, 
And  the  farm   where   our  childhood  grew 

weary  with  rest ; 

Bubbling  over  with  dreams  that  were  yearn 
ing  to  live, 
In  their  reaching  forgot  what  for  them  was 

the  best. 


The  Kettle  on  the  Crane    283 


So  the  seething  contents  of  the  kettle  o'er- 
flow 

Like  a  cascade  or  geyser  that  gurgling  give 

Flecks  of  foam  to  the  o'erhanging  clouds  but 
to  die 

With  a  sputter  upon  the  fire,  as  those  dreams 

Like  the  moths  in  our  warm,  youthful  energy 
fly  _ 

But  to  singe  their  frail  wings  in  the  soberer 
beams 

Of  maturity  wise.  Oh,  the  witchery  con 
tained 

In  the  caldron  that  hangs  on  the  rusty  old 
crane ! 

And  what  songs  it  can  sing  to  the  present- 
tired  brain 

That  call  on  this  sorcerer  for  potions  to  lure 

From  the  past  a  loved  look,  or  a  philter, 
allure 

Responsive  smiles  from  the  stern  cynic  Now. 

With  the  dusk  of  the  twilight  we  worship- 
fully  bow 

At  the  altar  to  try  and  forget  every  pain 

In  the  charms  that  are  cast  by  the  witch  of 
the  crane. 


WHEN   PUSSY   PURRS 

'"THERE  somehow  seems  to  come  a  chance 
*       When  life  takes  time  to  rest 
And  grants  o'er  long  gone  years  a  glance, 

All  peace,  but  now  unrest. 
There  seems  to  float  through  memory's  door, 

Now  open  wide,  a  sound 
Of  humming  bees  replenishing  their  store, 

Fly  our  Wistaria  round ; 
The  hum  's  akin  to  that  which  stirs 
When  pussy  purrs. 

And  somehow  too  methinks  I  see  a  fire 

And  mother  bending  o'er, 
While  close  beside  the  warm  grate  fire 

A  kitten's  bubbling  snore, 
And  from  the  kettle  hanging  by 

Niagara-like  there  's  mist 
O'er   spout,    from   whence   sometimes    the 

waters  fly, 

Fall  back  when  fire  hath  kissed, 
And  deep  within  the  kettle  stirs 
Like  pussy's  purrs. 
284 


When  Pussy  Purrs         285 

And  whirring  like  a  gramophone 

In  prelude  to  a  song, 
The  kitten  seems  to  be  alone, 

In  tunes  to  past  belong, 
The  sweetest  bard  of  memory ; 

And  thoughts  of  yesterdays 
From  record  of  the  mind  go  humming  free, 

No  other  music  plays 
As  oft  at  eventide  occurs 

When  pussy  purrs. 


THE   PHONOGRAPH 

I   HEARD  a  tale  not  very  long  ago 

Of  dryads  living  in  the  trees 
Who  sang  when  wakened  by  the  sunset  glow 
A  lay  that  rivalled  softest  breeze. 

To  free  this  sweetest  captive  fairy-maid 
One  must  a  magic  key  turn  round ; 

This  key  was  almost  sunken  in  the  shade 
Upon  the  bark  and  near  the  ground. 

But  he  who   pitied   most  would  seek  the 

most 

To  find  solution  of  this  song. 
The    happy  sprite  then  would  reward  her 

host 
Ten  added  years  of  life  and  song. 

A  learned  and  a  loved  countryman 
With  ear  of  genius  heard  a  song ; 

Along  mechanic's  forte  his  fingers  ran, 
Inspired,  unwearied,  ran  along. 
286 


The  Phonograph          287 

The  chord  he  found,  sometimes  he  lost  the 

chord. 
But    tireless    searched    the    whole    scale 

through, 

And  last  in  modest  niche  he  found  the  sword 
To  cut  the  gordian  knot  in  two. 

He  chained  the  humming-gamut  of  the  bees 
And  added  key-board  from  the  trees, 
Then  formed  his  key  from  product  of  the 

mines, 
The  joyous  dryad  he  unbinds. 

Not  ten  years  but  eternity  was  given, 

Not  years  but  what  is  more,  't  was  fame, 
And  listening  to  the  unchained  song  he  's 

given 

Applauding    world     bequeaths    undying 
name. 


AN  OLD   MAN'S   MUSINGS 

"T1  IS  growing  late,  the  night  is  near, 

I  think  of  this  without  a  tear, 
Things  are  so  changed  all,  all  is  new, 
I  turn  to  point  to  loved  ones  that  and  this, 
But  hear  no  word  replied.     Ah  true, 
The  loving  looks  of  those  I  miss ! 
For  all  are  long  since  gone,  are  gone. 
I  silent  wait  for  night's  release 
And  then  reunion  at  the  Dawn, 
This  sorrow  leave  for  perfect  peace. 

Around  the  rooms  are  ranged  the  books 
And  nicnacs  memory  filled.     I  read 
From  pages  of  the  past  these  nooks 
From  hands  so  dear  now  gone  indeed 
Took   existence   sweet.      The   things   once 

bright 

Are  pregnant  with  the  past,  but  worn 
And  faded  e'en  as  I.     My  sight 
Is  dim  and  weak,  but  sense  is  born 
To  hear  from  heart  the  tales  now  told 
Of  times  and  those  I  loved  of  old. 
288 


An  Old  Man's  Musings     289 

'T  is  growing  late,  the  night  is  near, 

My  race  is  almost,  almost  run. 

I  think  of  this  without  a  tear; 

The  start  was  sure  't  was  well  begun, 

The  finish  holds  no  haunting  fear ; 

Through  all  this  life  the  Lord  was  ever  near. 

The  loved  ones  all  are  gone,  are  gone ; 

I  silent  wait  for  night's  release 

And  then  reunion  at  the  Dawn, 

This  sorrow  leave  for  perfect  peace. 


MY   ENLISTING 

I  LIKE  the  fireside  battle-field, 
*     To  see  the  fireplace  forces  wield 
Their  strength  against  contending  cold, 
That  howling  tells  the  strokes  have  told. 

From  down  beneath  the  logs  I  hear 

In  volley  and  in  single  tone 
Defending  shots  that  charm  the  ear, 

And  say  the  hearth  still  holds  its  own. 

« 

The  firing  's  ceased,  the  fight  abates, 
The  rich  red  embers  mark  its  close, 

As  on  a  field  the  sun  retreats, 

Ashamed  of  red  on  tinged  white  rose. 

Then  we  around  in  bivouac  sit, 
The  bivouac  of  the  home,  to  muse 

Upon  the  battles  of  the  day, 
To-morrow's  encouragement  infuse. 


2QO 


THE   FAMILY   CLOCK 

'"THOUGH  the  clock  hath  struck  the  hours, 

With  a  warning  sharp  and  clear, 
I  cannot  resist  the  powers 
Of  the  spirits  ling' ring  near. 

'Cross  the  threshold,  treading  softly, 
With  a  grave-born  fear  of  sound, 

From  the  past  they  come  to  greet  me, 
And  silently  throng  around. 

The  call  of  the  clock  sonorous 
Recalls  these  my  visitors  away, 

And  the  twelfth  of  the  notes  in  chorus 
Adds  the  wraith  of  dead  To-day. 

With  a  sense  of  chastening  sadness 

Every  eve  the  ticks  I  tell, 
That  ring  in  the  awesome  stillness 

Like  the  strokes  of  a  funeral  bell ; 

Or  the  strokes  on  the  smithy  anvil 
Welding  bands  with  fire  and  blow, 

Beating  down  with  pain  and  sorrow 
To-day's  deeds  that  now  must  go; 
291 


292          The  Family  Clock 

That  must  go  as  the  silver  hammer 
Goes  ticking  the  last  nails  down ; 

But  the  flow'rs  of  memory  I  gather 
Despite  their  menacing  frown. 

Like  the  sound  of  builders'  sledges, 
As  the  ring  on  rivet  and  bolt, 

Tiny  ticks  on  the  great  bark's  edges, 
Making  strong  for  future  jolt. 

As  the  click  of  cavalry  hoof-beats 
Leave  the  known  for  stranger  streets, 
From  yesterday  each  new  second  weans 
And  prepares  for  us  new  scenes. 

Like  the  wearied  work  of  highhole 
Tapping,  toiling  for  its  bread ; 

And  the  message  quickens  dormant  soul 
And  ambition  nearly  dead. 

Soon  for  me  will  strike  no  hours 
But  the  twelfth-stroke  of  my  life, 

And  I,  like  the  faded  flowers, 
Will  pass  into  spirit  life ; 

Will  pass  like  the  faintest  echo 
Unheard  by  the  busy  crowd, 

As  the  sounds  of  a  single  second  go 
When  another  begins  to  crowd. 


WAIT 

T^HERE  'RE  thousand  souls  that  pendant 
*       hang 

On  syllable  sad  though  brief, 
So  sad  yet  sweet  it  hopefully  rang 
Like  mist-chimes'  blest  relief, 
Its  tidings  dear  to  sailor's  ear 
When  harbor's  hidden  guide  rings, 
Myth-siren-like  leading  sings. 

How  many  hearts  expectant,  grave, 

One  more  farewell  hope  crave, 

Have  heard  that  glad  but  tristful  tone 

That  as  the  years  roll  by 

An  all-aspiring  goal  has  grown, 

That  stifles  many  a  sigh 

And  conquers  many  a  cry ! 

Two  hearths  whose  fires  that  word  disjoins, 
Though  intermingled  grown, 
The  sweet  society  purloins, 
They  now  must  burn  alone; 
But  unquenched  fire  of  love 
293 


294  Wait 

Still  smoulders  through  the  years ; 
All  unrelieved  by  tears. 

Upon  the  sweetest  flower,  the  rose, 

The  sharpest  thorn-sting  grows, 

And  "Wait  "  in  all  its  loveliness 

A  hidden  pang  still  holds, 

For  fear  the  rose  which  it  enfolds 

Will  fade,  unfaithful  be, 

When  absence  makes  it  free. 

So  short  and  yet  so  long,  so  long, 

The  waited  days  are  doubly  long, 

But  still  like  mariners'  guiding-star 

It  beams  so  bright  and  far. 

A  word  of  hope  oft  makes  man  great, 

Controls,  directs  his  fate. 

Results  grow  brighter  as  we  wait. 


READING 


D  EADING  is  a  siesta  sweet, 
rx 

x     A  calm  and  restful  sleep, 
And  Morpheus'  recreation  seat, 

Where  rue  can  never  creep ; 
A  fairy  fane  where  woe  's  forgot, 
A  hermit's  peaceful  grot. 


'T  is  here  the  filmy  firmament 
Where  dreams  and  fancies  roam, 

The  tales  of  light  fantastic  bent, 
Or  deep  and  dusty  tome 

That  with  impressive  awe  imparts 

The  Eastern  subtile  arts. 

A  paradise  that  kind  conforms 
To  mood  that  reigns  the  hour; 

Inciting  tale  of  war  that  warms 

And  strengthens  manhood's  power, 

Or  lays  of  love  that  sweetly  give 

The  reason  why  we  live. 
295 


296  Reading 

The  garden  where  cute  wisdom  grows, 
Such  that  entwined  with  rose, 

The  learned  ivy  unseen  works 
Its  intellectual  spell. 

Upon  each  page  a  life-thought  lurks, 
As  some  one  rose  or  fell. 


TWILIGHT   ON   THE   FARM 

JV/I  Y  library  window  looks  with  awe 

'  *  *     O'er  cornfield  frost-made  brown  and 

bare; 

Nature  beauty-shorn  trys  to  withdraw 
In  shame  to  concealing  shadows'  care ; 
But  merciless  day,  still  lingering  near, 
Illumes  the  trees  and  scattered  stalks 
Of  corn,  still  standing  without  fear, 
The  silent  sentinels  whose  walks 
Are  confined  to  swaying  with  the  wind. 

The  dawn  and  twilight  pale,  the  birth 

And  death  of  day,  twin  brothers  are ; 

The  same  gray  light  enshrouds  the  earth, 

Things  look  as  dim  as  though  viewed  afar. 

Both  scenes  are  restfully  subdued 

In  sound,  in  color,  and  effect ; 

The  mind  revolts  at  aught  that  's  rough  or 

rude, 

As  oft  the  thunder  storms  affect, 
And  seeks  the  restful  solitude. 
297 


298      Twilight  on  the  Farm 

Within  the  room  the  stove  with  regret 

Soft  glows  from  out  the  corner  dark, 

At  last  few  seconds  of  sunset. 

My  books  try  hard  to  hide  themselves 

Behind  the  undeceiving  glass, 

And  Caesar's  cast,  though  built  of  brass, 

Seems  leagued  with  life  and  leaning  looks 

As  though  intent  to  speak.     The  side  door 

makes 
A  dark  abyss,  Cimmerian  gates. 

But  through  the  double  doors  a  view 

In  cheerful  contrast  to  sombre  hue 

Of  my  dark  den.     There  grandma  dear 

By  candle-light,  compared  so  near 

To  lack  of  light  shines  as  a  sun, 

Prepares  the  evening  meal.     In  fun 

Her  tresses  twist  themselves  to  curls 

And  nestle  round  her  neck  like  some  young 

girl's, 
Though  snow  stays  fast  from  storms  of  past. 

When  trouble  brings  a  twilight  time, 
Casts  shapeful  shadows  on  life's  scene, 
When  e'en  my  books  almost  divine 
Too  fail  to  interest  me,  when  green 
And   smiling    nature   looks   so   brown   and 
sad 


Twilight  on  the  Farm       299 

As  on  that  twilight  eve,  I  turn 
To  cheerful  thoughts  of  when  a  lad. 
Encouragements  from  candle  burn 
Whose  image  's  cast  by  mirroring  Past. 


WHY? 

A  LONE  I  sat  in  study  just  at  eve, 
^^     My  mind  on  missionary  work  was  bent, 
And    saddened    thoughts    surged    on,    nor 

would  they  leave, 
Till  God  a  missionary  sent. 
I  heard  a  sound,  a  stranger's  step,  unknown ; 
I  'd  asked  that  I  remain  alone. 
But   somehow   thoughts   would   come    and 

work  would  go, 
Thus  this  intrusion  welcomed  so. 

"Please  buy  some  lace,  good  sir,"  I  heard 
her  say, 

A  tiny  tot  scarce  eight,  looked  more. 

"It  's  some  I  knit  myself,  sir,  yesterday." 

'T  was  such  a  pleading  look  she  wore. 

"Come  here,  you  little  one,  sit  down  by  me, 

I  '11  try  a  missionary  be." 

She  came  and  took  my  hand  in  sweet  sur 
prise, 

An  eager  light  shone  in  her  eyes. 
300 


Why  ? 


"I  Ve  always  wished  to  meet  a  mission-man, 
Something  strange  I  can't  understand: 
What    makes    them    go   away   to   a   far-off 

land?" 

A  tear  unseen  fell  on  my  hand. 
"They  take  them  things  to  eat,  but  I  am 

hungry  too, 

And  mother  's  sick,  —  no  food  to  eat,  — 
And  Brother  Bill,  —  he  died  last  night,  —  was 

too. 
Why  don't  they  bring  us  bread  and  meat?" 

These  simple  words  to  me  a  lesson  taught  ; 

The  little  one  inside  I  brought, 

She  would  not  eat,  but  wished  it  home  to 

take, 

"So  mother  'd  eat  and  soon  get  well." 
And  this  I  did  for  my  dear  mother's  sake; 
And  yet  still  more  I  did  as  well, 
I  took  her  home,  played  mission  "just  for 

fun." 
Pray  same  case  what  would  you  have  done? 

Oft  in  my  study,  by  the  firelight's  glow, 
Memory  recalls  that  scene  of  long  ago, 
And  oft  the  simple  question  "Why  "  comes 

back, 
But  all  the  answers  reasoning  lack. 


302  Why  ? 

We  've  mission  work  at  home,  but  misery  's 

still  around, 
There  's  much  that 's  done,  there  's  much  to 

do. 
What   I  'd   commenced  I  'd  try  to   carry 

through, 
Before  I  'd  seek  new  working  ground. 


IGNORANT   EMIGRATION 

T   SILENT  stood  on  Swansea's  dock 

And  saw  what  I  in  words  can't  find, 
So  sad  a  scene  that  pathos  paints 

Its  image  on  my  mind. 
A  state  by  ship  was  soon  to  sail 

For  far  Australia's  land, 
And  now  with  sorrow's  sob  and  wail 

The  voyagers  flock  the  strand. 

Now  they  sail  through  zone  of  sorrow 

That  's  e'er  attendant  when  we  part. 
Now  too  late  they  dream  of  morrow ; 

•Higher  nature  given  sway 
Brings  clearer  intellectual  light 

On  dreams  of  yesterday. 
They  see  the  scheme  with  reasoning  slight 

By  whose  false  flame  they  came. 

The  signal  's  given,  the  crowd  embark, 
The  smaller  sails  are  set,  she  steers 

From  land  soon  left  but  harder  gained. 
Alone  I  sat  in  tears ; 
303 


304        Ignorant  Emigration 

And  mournful  musings  thronged  my  mind ; 

I  seemed  to  see  the  waves 
Form  from  the  ripples  of  the  wind 

This  people's  future  life. 

They  sailed  a  sea-sick  stricken  crew 

In  close-cramped  quarters  stowed,  and  knew 

No  light  nor  air  for  nearly  half  a  year. 

Their  dreamings  once  so  dear 

They  now  long  since  had  disappeared ; 

'T  was  only  trouble  seen 
In  land  which  now  they  quickly  neared, 

Not  what  it  might  have  been. 


JOTS  FOR  LITTLE  TOTS 


305 


BABYLAND 


dear,  let  's  take  a  stroll, 
Yes,  hand  in  hand, 
Your  tiny  fingers  lead 
To  Babyland. 

I  'd  throw  off  all  these  years 

To  live  with  thee, 
And  leave  the  work  and  cares 

That  trouble  me. 

And  then  in  silent  songs 
We  'd  give  Him  praise, 

With  birdies  teaching  us 
To  tune  our  lays. 

Oh,  would  n't  we  romp  and  run 
While  she  smiled  sweet, 

The  mother,  dearest  one, 
Helps  guide  our  feet  ! 

I  'd  pull  poor  kitty's  tail 
The  same  as  you  ; 
307 


308  Babyland 

I  think  it  must  be  fun 
Sweetheart,  don't  you? 

It  must  be  jolly  too 
When  taught  to  walk 

That  gravitation  laws 
Our  efforts  balk. 

I  've  been  a  baby  once, 
And  now  I  pray,' — 

As  simple  and  as  good 
E'er  be,  I  may. 


THE   BUMBLE-BEES'    SONG 

\  17  HEN  Father  Adam  was  inventing  bees 

Instructions  given  them  were  these: 
"With  zeal  the  blossoms  in  a  breezy  zone 
To  seek  in  zigzag  paths  "  and  that  alone. 

They  spelled  it  o'er  as  we  were  wont  to  do 
When  mother  us  to  market  sent. 

One  day  a  field  of  cotton  caught  their  view 
That  settled  in  the  buds,  on  business  bent. 

The  fleecy  wool  filled  up  their  tiny  ears, 
And  all  they  heard  was  so  confused ! 

And  even  after  all  these  many  years 

They  're   less   by   music   than   by   noise 
amused. 

' '  With  zeal  the  blossoms  in  a  breezy  zone 
To  seek  in  zig-zag  paths  "  they  sound, 

But  only  got  predominating  tone, 

That  's  where  the  bee  his  orchestra  has 
found. 


309 


A  CHILDREN'S    SURPRISE    PARTY 


"THERE  'S  whispered  wisdom  in  the  halls, 

And  candy-man's  unusual  calls, 
The  words  that  heads  in  silence  shake 
With  thought  to  make  a  prophet  quake. 


The  only  truly  innocent  one 

Was  our  dear  baby  girl.     Her  curls 

Were  tangled  by  no  traitorous  thoughts 
That  filled  the  heads  of  the  other  girls. 

The  hour  has  come,  the  foe  's  at  hand, 
The  garrison  unsuspecting  too ! 

Then  in  they  troop  by  twos  and  threes, 
Meet  two  reproachful  eyes  of  blue. 

As  Moses  smote  the  hidden  spring, 
The  influence  of  the  hour  rolls  'way 

The  years  that  hide  my  childhood  days, 
And  young  again,  I  join  their  play. 
310 


A  Children's  Surprise  Party  311 

As  deep  attentive  to  the  play 
As  on  the  sternest,  hardest  task, 

Completely  in  the  youngsters'  sway, 
Relieved  of  age's  hated  mask. 

There  're  games  with  laughter  as  their  goal, 
"To  Holy  City  merrily  march," 

"To  tack  the  tail  on  donkey  droll," 

"Or  creep  'neath  Brooklyn's  falling  arch." 

These  trivial  toys  we  ne'er  forget, 

In  life  a  most  important  part, 
To  memory's  chord  the  toning  fret, 

For  ear  that  sweetest  hears,  our  heart. 

Then  candled  cake  with  knowledge  crowned, 
And  things  to  form  a  feast  complete ; 

There  's  nothing  good  that 's  left  unfound; 
The  hour  with  perfect  joy  's  replete. 

But  envious  Time,  averse  to  joy,       "-- 
Turns  round  his  head  and  hastens  by ; 

When  sorrow  makes  our  life  its  toy 
With  derrion-smile  Time  stops  to  guy. 

"Appreciations"  and  "Farewells" 
That  our  wishes  ne'er  did  brew 

Are  said,  then  the  happy  hearts  depart, 
Blessed  by  two  thankful  eyes  of  blue. 


WHAT   BABY   SAW 

T  N  a  tree-top  tall  from  molesting  man 
*     Three  tiny  play-chestnuts  lay, 
In  a  make-believe  burr  built  of  grass, 
But  were  dressed  in  a  different  way : 

For  the  tiny  babe-chestnuts  are  covered  with 
white, 

And  no  alien  hues  are  there, 
But  these  three  on  this  tree  sported  slight 

Tiny  touches  of  blue,  bright  and  fair. 

With  the  time  of  the  opening  came  a  surprise, 
And  the  stranger  dropped  his  disguise ; 
A  little  furred  form  like  a  brown  powder-puff 
In  surroundings  strange  enough 

Stands  shaking  in  wonder  at  the  odd  world, 

Half-afraid,  tries  not  to  fly. 
And  the  mother  so  proud,  just  returned  with 

some  food, 

Sits  laughing  encouragement  by. 
312 


LULLABY 

T^vEAR  birdies,  breathe  a  soft,  sweet  song, 
*-*'     For  baby  wants  to  sleep ; 
To  keep  her  thus  awake  't  is  wrong; 
She  longs  from  earth  to  leap 

To  talk  with  God  awhile, 

Already  sees  Him  smile. 

And  clouds,  you  eyelids  of  the  moon, 

Hide  fast  in  sleep  her  light, 
And  bar  those  beams  and  blind  them  soon, 
For,  stealing  through  the  night 
In  fleeing  from  the  skies, 
They  tickle  baby's  eyes. 

O  happy  honey-bee,  your  music  cease, 

'T  is  time  you  were  abed; 
Or  think  you  in  the  sleeping  rose 
To  steal  your  hunting  head  ? 
We  're  watching  you  now  go, 
Your  song  makes  sleep  come  slow. 
313 


3H  Lullaby 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep,  lest  morrow  come 
'Fore  your  to-day  is  done. 
The  stars  are  trying  to  be  dim, 

That  small  one  's  gone  asleep. 
The  leaves  hum  murmured  hymn, — 

"Sleep,  baby,  angels  keep." 


MY  WORK  IS   DONE 

little  one,  my  work  is  done, 
I  now  would  talk  with  thee. 
We  '11  talk  about  the  setting  sun, 
The  clouds  in  golden  glory ; 

Or  of  the  moon  whose  mounts  give  rise 

To  stories  weird  and  false : 
Of  man  who,  banished  to  the  skies, 

Must  ever  flaunt  his  faults. 


Yes,  little  one,  we  must  beware 

Lest  our  life  's  ridiculed, 
For  we,  as  all,  a  precept  wear, 

Some  life  by  ours  is  ruled. 

Or  tell  me  tales  you  hear  in  sleep 
That  make  you  sweetly  smile, 

Or  tell  me  truths  the  Lord  would  keep 
As  told  in  Sacred  File. 
315 


316         My  Work  is  Done 

"Thou  'st  hid  these  things  from  prudent, 
wise, 

But  unto  babes  revealed." 
Within  those  thoughtful,  guiltless  eyes 

Is  wordless  wisdom  sealed. 

Or  teach  me  how  my  prayers  to  raise, 

"For  from  the  babies'  lips  " 
God  said,  "Thou  hast  perfected  praise." 

I  know  thy  tongue  ne'er  trips. 


BABY  AND  THE  CATERPILLAR 

T   luv  de  taterpillar,  fuzzy  fing, 

Dat  treeps  an'  trawls  along  de  road 
Jus'  like  de  'ittle  pussy-willow  fing 

Had  dotten  loose  an'  no  one  knowed. 
I  see  him  tomin'  toward  my  toes, 
Be  tarful,  don't  ou  torn  too  close ! 
I  'd  like  to  pat  ou,  deary  ou, 
I  luv  de  tater,  taterpill — er  OO ! ! 

It  luks  like  mamma's  boa  tollar,  too, 
All  shrinked  to  a  teeny,  tiny  one ; 
I  wonder  what  would  mamma  really  do 

If  her  fur  tollar  start  to  wun. 
Teep  back  there  from  my  toes, 
Be  tarful,  don't  ou  torn  too  close; 
I  'd  like  to  pat  ou,  deary  ou, 
I  luv  de  tater,  taterpill — er  OO ! ! 

Or  like  de  frizzly  four  o'clocks  ou  blow 

To  see  if  mamma  wants  ou  home, 
I  dess  I  '11  try  dis  taterpillar  so, 
317 


318    Baby  and  the  Caterpillar 

I  tink  his  curlies  need  a  comb. 
Oh,  Oh !     How  it  teeckles  my  nose, 
I  fink  I  like  ou  not  so  close ! 
But  I  '11  pat  ou,  deary  ou, 
I  luv  de  tater,  taterpill— er  OO ! ! 


BABY'S  SKY 

baby  and  I  can  boast  a  sky 
More    lovely  than  that  which  meets 

the  eye 

Of  wide-awake  ocean's  upward  gaze, 
When  little  folks  long  have  ceased  their  plays. 
In  the  dome  of  our  fireplace  straight-arched 

back 

That  wintry  clouds  have  tinted  black 
The  sputtering  sparks  form  starlets  bright, 
That  shine  so  real  to  our  dreamy  sight. 

One  touch  of  the  tongs,  it  bursts  into  blaze 
And  a  thousand  meteors  fill  the  sky, 

As  oft  we  've  seen  after  summer  days ; 
And  baby  appears  as  though  to  fly 

As  little  ones  do  beyond  the  sky. 

But  if  her  fingers  a  star  should  clutch 

The  word  they  use  when  stars  seem  to  touch, 
Indeed  it  would  be  a  syzygy. 

When  baby  's  tired  and  the  fires  burn  low 
The  sky  reflects  a  dull  red  glow, 
319 


320  Baby's  Sky 

Like  the  west  on  a  quiet  summer  day, 
When  the  sun  has  nearly  burned  away ; 
And  then  baby  's  'neath  two  blackened  skies 
For  she  's  clouded  those  two  bright  blue  eyes 
With  clouds  all  black  on  inner  side, 
Though  prettiest  pink  on  other  side. 


THE  MOTHERLESS  DOLL 

A  H,  honored  toy,  not  understanding  doom ; 
**     Unt  eased  by  Sorrow's  needle  sharp, 
That  makes  rough  the  woof  of  life's  loom ; 

Grief's  untaught  fingers  on  life's  harp, 
That  mar  the  harmonies  just  given, 
By  little  angel  sent  from  Heaven ; 
How  blessed  art  thou  !     But  yesterday 
At  twilight,  when  quietly  the  day 
Passed  away,  in  awe  the  night 

Stood  still  with  shaded  eye  to  weep, 
Our  babe,  our  darling,  with  the  light 

Of  dying  day  as  if  in  sleep 
Returned  to  where  she  just  had  come. 

Those  lips  that  lisped  thee  lullabies 
Are  now  to  earthly  hearing  dumb. 

Would     thou     couldst     help     my     grief 
appease ! 

These  toys  that  recent  held  no  thought 
And  no  respect,  her  death  hath  wrought, 
They  now  are  signs  of  one  above, 
That  plead  the  care  of  grieving  love. 
321 


322       The  Motherless  Doll 


I  know  thou  grievest,  dost  thou  not, 

As  I  the  loss  of  fingers  fair 
Of  our  loving  little  tot, 

Those  fingers'  tender,  gentle  care 
That  smoothed  the  trouble-wrinkled  brow, 

The  lisping  tones  sweet  comfort  gave? 
The  morn  that  lit  my  life  just  now 

Seems  shadowed  by  that  tiny  grave, 
And  touched  with  twilight  gloom  ; 
And  silence  throned  throughout  the  room 
So  lately  filled  with  baby  fun, 
Too  mourns  the  lost  life  just  begun. 


FLY  AWAY  HOME 

OME,  chimney-swift,  and  wing  your  way 

To  your  nest,  quick  fly  away ! 
Capricious  April  hath  hid  her  smile, 
For  building  she  did  beguile, 
But  now  the  day  grows  dark  and  cold, 
Do  be  warned  by  what  you  're  told ! 

The  farm-house  folk  have  made  a  fire 
In  the  fireplace  'neath  your  nest, 

Your  home  of  twigs  's  in  danger  dire, 
The  young  ones  are  all  at  rest ; 

Fly  then,  alarm  your  sleeping  fold, 

Do  be  warned  by  what  you  're  told ! 

Lose  not  a  moment,  make  all  haste, 

Your  children  are  all  alone, 
The  heat  it  may  dissolve  the  paste 

That  binds  your  nest  to  the  stone, 
And  from  their  high  home  on  the  wall 
In  the  fire  your  young  may  fall ! 
323 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  THRUSH 

A     HOUSE  of  needles.     Strange,  you  say? 
**     And  well,  indeed,  you  may. 
But  deep  within  the  shaded  wood 
There  lives  a  bird  who  wears  a  hood, 
Within  a  nest  of  pine-cone  made, 
And  coarsest  grass  that  cannot  fade. 

But  very  bashful  is  this  bird, 

Almost  as  hard  to  see 
As  Santa  Glaus  when  to  give  him  word 

You  shout  with  glad  but  anxious  glee 
Into  the  fireplace  chimney  dark, 
And  sit  for  hours  saying  "Hark!" 

And  happy  is  this  home  alway, 
O'er  bills  don't  bother  they. 
(Your  father  '11  tell  you  that  's  a  pun, 
But  ask  him,  just  for  sake  of  fun, 
If  he  worms  from  his  bills  all  day 
And  sleeps  at  night  on  honest  hay.) 
324 


The  Home  of  the  Thrush    325 

When  evening  dyes  the  cloth  of  day 

This  tail-er  leaves  his  task, 
To  needled  home  then  threads  his  way ; 

No  couch  of  painted  soft  damask ; 
But  joy  can  furnish  any  nest 
With  comforts  good  as  in  the  best. 


TRIFLES 


The  tares  that  thrust  intruding  feet 
Into  the  sacred  courts  of  wheat. 


327 


EPITAPH  TO  MY  VERSES 

TAGOS  of  a  foolish  fancy  born, 

The  dust  of  thoughts  well   worthy   in 

themselves, 

In  mills  of  diction  all  their  flower  is  shorn, 
For  thoughts  are  modest,  uncommitting 

elves. 
And,  after  reading,  if  a  fate  forlorn 

You  deem  deserved,  with  care  place  on 

your  shelves, 
And  dust  return  to  dust.     And  o'er  them 

write : — 

Tuned  by  a  traveller  whom  roams  inspired, 
But  Nero-like  no  nearer  fame,  though  light 

Of  burning  energy  by  impulse  fired 
Illumed  the  path  ambition  made  so  bright. 


329 


OUR  INHERITANCE 

pvAME  NATURE  willed  a  wreath  to  men, 
*"*'     One  side  she  wove  of  poppies  red, 
Dear  consolation's  sign;  and  then 

The  other  bound  with  brambles  dread, 
That  wear  insignia  of  remorse. 
Capricious  maid,  she  knew  not  of  its  force, 
For  poppies  soon  will  disappear  and  fade, 
But  brambles  do  perennial  life  parade. 


330 


THE  SHEARS  OF  ATROPOS 

O  OME  lives  should  think  it  a  blessed  thing 
^     That  shears  that  cut  their  string 
Are  not  the  kind  for  button-holes ! 
That  she  don't  measure  by  their  souls 
And  cut  to  fit  what  they  put  in ! 


331 


MY  FIREPLACE 

JVA  Y  warmest  and  my  truest  friend, 
*    *     How  oft  we  sit  together, 
With  sparkling  dialogue  defend 
'Gainst  critic's  chilling  weather. 

I  oft  have  tendered  you  my  rhyme, 

Afraid  to  show  another ; 
When  I  to  comic  verse  would  climb 

I  feared  that  you  would  smother; 

Or  some  sarcastic  ode  relieved 
You  grew  so  cold  and  gloomy, 

Although  "put  out,"  I  most  believed 
You  but  moaned  the  lost  fame  with  me. 


332 


SAMBO'S  TROUBLES 

"JVJOW  Liza,  jus'  you  listen 

Till  I  's  told  dis  story  you, 
Listen  car'ful  so  's  you  '11  hear, 
For  it  beat  me,  'deed  it  do. 


'Las'  night  I  druv  de  massa 
To  de  lectur'  in  de  hall; 
'Now,  Sambo,'  says  de  massa, 
'Har  's  some  money,  you  come,  too.' 


"So  's  I  went  in  to  hear  dat  man, 

An'  hars  him  talk  such  stuff 
Dat  'fore  he  fru  dis  nigga  say: 
'Jus'  let  me  go,  I  's  hed  enuff.' 

"But  massa  say  dat  I  no  go, 

So  's  I  listen,  scared  clean  fru, 
For  dat  ol*  man  he  do  talk  so 
'Bout  things  on  arth  and  things  below. 
333 


334          Sambo's  Troubles 


"He  'tol  us  'bout  the  Atom 
Infinit  and  could  n't  be  seen, 
All  things,  includin'  Adam, 
Done  start  by  dat  same  thing. 

"When  I  druv  de  massa  home 
I  looks  out  very  car'ful  like, 
Fo'  he  said  dat  Atoms  roam 
In  eb'ry  thing  we  see. 

"I  went  to  bed,  but  I 's  no  sleep, 
So  's  out  I  got  my  bigges'  gun 
An'  sets  me  up  a  guard  to  keep 

(With  plenty  room  so  's  I  could  run). 

"Las'  sees  an  objict  I 
Jus'  like  dat  Atom  looks ; 
I  fired  de  gun  and  't  aint  no  lie, 
I  runs  like  sixty,  dat  did  I. 

"Arly  in  de  mornin' 

Comes  de  massa  dredful  mad, 
For  his  bestes'  Sunda'  jacket 
Shot  to  pieces  dat  I  hed. 

"But  I  doan  quite  see  fru  it, 

Fo'  de  fust  thing  dat  he  say, — 
'See,  you  crazy  lump  of  ebonit, 

My    bestes'     coat     ALL    IN    ATOMS 
LAY!'  " 


THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE 
SEA-BEACH 

(To  my  reader  :  I  have  not  my  dictionary  at  hand,  but 
I  take  "Literature"  as  being  the  noun  formed  from  the 
verb  "  to  litter,"  and  meaning  "  that  which  is  strewn.") 

I   SEE  while  strolling  o'er  the  beach  such 

sights 

As  call  forth  memories  of  my  books. 
The  spider-crab  a  monster  e'en  me  frights, 
What  an  ideal  lago  he  looks ! 
And  by  some  chance  near-by  a  toad-fish  lies, 
To  fancy  quick  the  story  flies 
That    gnome    of    Notrc-Dame    conception 

gives, 

A  homelier  creature  scarce  there  lives, 
Yet  character  from  form  is  ne'er  designed. 
And  frightfully  near  my  foot  I  find 
An  old  wax  doll  that  moves  and  tries  to  rise ! 
Is  Frankenstein  before  mine  eyes? 
'T  is  but  a  frozen  crab  thrown  on  the  strand, 
Near  covered  by  the  doll  and  sand, 
And  waxing  warm  within  his  forced  grave 

335 


336  Literature  of  the  Sea-Beach 


In  crabbed  humor  seeks  escape. 

Some  wave  has  broken  in  a  sand-bank,  too, 

And  dollars  lie  in  piles  around ; 

If  Holmes  were  only  here  to  catch  a  clew, 

If  all  the  proofs  were  not  now  drowned ! 

And  that?    Why   Harum  must  have  been 

around ; 

The  trade-winds  have  a  sea-horse  thrown 
In  stormy  weather  on  the  eager  ground, 
It  lies  as  still  now  as  a  stone. 
And  many  more  books  might  I  lay  indeed 
Upon  the  shelving  beach,  but  I  prefer 
That  you,  too,  go  and  see  what  you  can  read. 
So  go  to  sea,  for  there  occur 
The  objects  bathed  in  mystery,  and  all 
Can  tell  a  tale  if  you  but  read. 
Forgotten  study,  too,  they  may  recall, 
All  in  their  wise  but  silent  creed. 
'T  is  why  from  frequent  educating  talks, 
I  call  my  " Litter-at-your- Walks." 


LOGARITHMS 

I\A  Y  lumbering  mind  can  woo  not  thee, 
*    *     O  mdd  of  mighty  mind, 

My  efforts  are  declined. 
My  versing  must  entirely  be 
To  scan  the  light  log-rhythms 

Of  high  holes'  timed  beat. 


337 


ODE  TO  JOHN  JONES 

"   JOHN  JONES?  Yeah,  thet  's  my  name, 
^         and  uf  the  same 
I  hev  a  son,  a  right  smart  un, 
Who  's  allers  writin'  po'ms ;  wal,  I  doan  claim 
Ter  know  a  nothin'  'bout  sich  things,  but 

my  son 
Wus  called  one  day  while  writin'  and  I  jist 

peeked 
Ter   see  what  sort  uf  stuff  it   wus.     What 

wus  't 
Yersay?     Ha!  Ha! 

But  he  's  my  son,  a  right  smart  un. 

Wal,  shinin'  brightly  frum  thet  paper  top 
These  wurds  so  full  uf  feelin'  I  hed  ter  stop 
An'  shed  a  tear,  the  same  I  hev'  nt  done 
Since  Dolly  died.     But,  stranger,  he  's  my 

son. 
He  writ  "Ode  to  John  Jones,"  thet 's  me! 

you  see, 

His  father,  me!     I  didn't  read  no  more, 
338 


Ode  to  John  Jones         339 

But  saw  the  wurds  "Hayseed"  and  "Pop," 

bless  me 
He  jist  meant  "crop,"  and  "Hayseed  V  jist 

his  farmin'  lore. 

I  tell  yer,  stranger,  if  all  sons  but  knowed 
Jist  all  that  they  to  their  fathers  ode, 
How  happy  men  would  be !     And  I  *m  so 
proud 

About  thet  son  (sich  a  smart  un) 
Thet  seems  I  must  jist  tell  it  to  the  crowd. 

I  hope  when  John  hes  got  a  son 
He  too  will  'predate  what  my  son  owns, 
The  orful  lot  thet  he  "ode  to  John  Jones." 

THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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